


Without Giving Anything Away

by mellish



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Olympics, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: “He’s not my boyfriend. Just my best friend, visiting from Argentina.”Or: seven times Hajime and Tooru weren't dating, from kindergarten all the way to the Olympics, and after.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 48
Kudos: 613





	Without Giving Anything Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rageprufrock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/gifts), [thispuppyflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispuppyflies/gifts).



> Spoilers for the series ending (ch 402). This was an attempt at canon compliance, but I definitely took liberties.

**i.**

Kindergarten was awesome except for that one awful week when all the girls in class mysteriously became obsessed with playing house and insisted that Hajime and Tooru could not be together, that they each needed to pick at least one girl to settle with. This girl was the only one you could play with for all of recess. The boys were disgruntled, but there were so few of them that they couldn’t stage a rebellion.

Hajime did not like this “game” at all and kept wandering out of the classroom to rummage the garden for bugs. Even then he already had that _thing_ that made him gruffly gentle, so whenever a bossy girl seized his upper arm and dragged him off, he wouldn’t tug away or protest, just frown and sigh deeply, a hint the girls did not get. Tooru got it, because he understood everything about Hajime. He also understood that this “game” was somehow important; that he was teetering on the edge of something critical by resolving this matter of houses.

“But why?” He asked Akemi-chan, as he squatted next to her on the pink mat that she had cheerfully declared as their house. “Why can’t Hajime and I live in the same house?”

“Because!” she said, exasperated. “You can’t! You’re not dating!”

“Well, but _we’re_ not dating, either?”

Akemi burst into tears. The teacher came by and _tsked_ at Tooru—what did he say this time? Tooru, age five, had not yet figured out the finesse that meant he said different things to girls, to make them like him.

There was a lull one recess when Ruriko brought over an amazing toaster that went _ping_ when one’s plastic toast was done. The girls were occupied, so Tooru snuck away to Hajime, who was methodically inspecting the root of the biggest tree for beetles. Tooru did not see the appeal of bugs, but he sat next to Hajime anyway, and felt instantly happy and comforted by it. The last two days of not playing together were Not As Fun as this, even if he was only watching Hajime get dirt under his nails.

“Are you dating Hana?” Hana had the best hair clips and could have picked any boy she wanted for her house. Privately, it hurt Tooru that she had picked Hajime and not Tooru. He did not see how she thought Hajime was better. Though if he were a girl he would probably pick Hajime too, after himself.

“Huh?”

“Hana. You sat on the blue mat together.”

“Oh. I hate that game.”

“Yes, but are you dating?”

“No?” At Tooru’s frown, he paused to actually consider it. “No.”

“That’s right!” Tooru felt both relieved and validated.

Hajime shrugged. His utter lack of interest made Tooru feel the need to defend his curiosity.

“They say we can’t live together because we’re not dating.”

“I guess we can’t, then.”

“I guess,” Tooru said, and found tears filling his eyes. He stood. He suddenly did not want to sit there.

Hajime noticed. Hajime was very bad with crying people, Tooru knew, so he tried his best not to cry around Hajime, but once in a while something like this happened that made it very, very hard. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Tooru shouted.

“Ugh,” Hajime said. He frowned as the tears spilled down Tooru’s cheeks and spattered his shirt. Tooru was really very sad, but if Hajime kept asking him why he would get more sad, and he wouldn’t be able to explain why _at all_. Hajime found a worm and picked it up. It was limp and pink and didn’t even wriggle. Sighing, he put it back on the ground. “Don’t worry,” he said, simply. Tooru heard his dad says this to his mom all the time. It annoyed his mom, and it annoyed Tooru now, but it also released something that had been coiling, tighter and tighter, inside him. He made a sound that was neither yes nor no, because Hajime did not have to always be right. Besides, they had an even number of good behavior stars in the star chats outside the classroom.

The next day the toaster was gone and the girls resumed their predatory stance during recess. Akemi hated Tooru and told all the girls to hate him too, but not all the girls liked Akemi, so this time Chizuru came and beamed at him. He was resigned, but her yellow mat at least had half a train set on it. Before he could go, though, Hajime grabbed Tooru by the elbow. “We’re going to share a house,” he said. Chizuru opened her mouth to protest. “We’re not dating,” Hajime continued, carefully. “We’re married.”

Panicking, Tooru tried to tug his arm away, but Hajime held on. His eyes seemed to say, _Shut up, don’t you want to play together?_ As a matter of fact Tooru did, but he still felt this was wrong and probably wouldn’t work.

Chizuru closed her mouth. She looked thoughtful. Then she grinned widely. Her eyes sparkled. “No, no! You’re not married _yet_! We’re going to make you a wedding!”

No one had ever gotten married in their class before. It proved diverting, especially since house was starting to get boring—all the boys were very bad at being boyfriends. For the next two recesses the girls planned an extravagant wedding for Hajime and Tooru. Tooru thought it all very stupid, though he did sort of like the flower crown Akemi weaved for him as a vengeful wedding gift. Also, it was fun to talk to the girls as they asked him what colors he liked and what flavor of cake was his favorite. Hajime was nonplussed because it meant he could go back to climbing monkey bars.

The day of the planned ceremony, Chizuru and Ayaka got into a big fight over something unrelated and Chizuru stuck gum in Ayaka’s hair; everyone forgot about the wedding. The day after, someone had donated a lot of new used toys to the classroom so everyone found something more fun to play with.

**ii.**

The bump on Hajime’s forehead was still swollen and angry the next day, but he removed the patch because it was irritating him. People squinted their eyes and looked sorry when they saw his red, angry flesh, but whatever. He was extremely over it. What mattered was that Oikawa was back to normal, never mind that he had his own mirror bump.

The next day at practice Oikawa was extra cheerful to all of their first-years, except for Kageyama, whom he alternately bullied and ignored. Business as usual. Hajime made it harder for Oikawa because he still couldn’t believe his best friend _had raised a fucking hand against a first year, what the shit was he thinking._ He served volleyballs to the back of Oikawa’s head every chance he got, and was extra tough on him about his sometimes-sloppy form.

It was probably trauma that made Kageyama reach out to Hajime instead of Oikawa in the first place, two days after The Gym Incident. A simple gesture, nearly sweet in its innocence: two milk teas on Hajime’s desk during lunch time, and a note. _I’m sorry I made you fight. This is for both of you. Please do not stop dating because of me._

Hajime read the note again, then a third time. It was inscrutable, and not just because the handwriting was atrocious. (He did not expect that kind of handwriting for someone with Kageyama’s looks. Yes, even he knew that was a stupid notion. But kids with cool-guy faces also tended to be smart. And no, he was _not_ referring to Shittykawa.) First off, he and Oikawa weren’t fighting. They argued relentlessly and frequently punched each other, or rather Oikawa annoyed the hell out of him and he punched Oikawa in retaliation—but that wasn’t actually _fighting_. Hajime would know if they were. It was rare and totally shitty whenever it happened.

Secondly, they weren’t dating. Hajime was not sure if he should be more mortified that anything about their interactions made Kageyama think so, or that it was _Kageyama_ who thought so. For all his genius, Kageyama was pure as a lamb, so he wasn’t doing this as some kind of mean joke. Hajime decided to confront Kageyama about it before practice that day. As vice captain he knew everyone’s schedules and tendencies pretty well; he picked his timing, because he didn’t want to make a big fuss, and walked into the gym as Kageyama, Kindaichi, and Kunimi were setting up the net.

“Hey, Kageyama,” he said. “Come here for a sec.” He tried not to feel too gratified at how all first-years flinched.

“Iwaizumi-san,” Kageyama answered, jogging over and bowing.

“What’s the deal with your note?”

Kageyama tilted his head. Cuteness did not work well on Hajime, but he caved anyway. “You know, the one on the milk tea.”

“Oh!” Kageyama nodded and bowed again. “I’m very sorry. I thought maybe you were fighting because of me, and I wanted to make sure it was all okay.”

“We’re not fighting,” Hajime said. “I’m harder on him because he was being a shitty teammate. Anyway, that’s not what I…” this was more awkward than he thought it would be. “I meant the part about dating.”

Kageyama’s head had straightened; at this he tilted it again.

“We’re not dating,” Hajime said, trying not to get annoyed.

“Oh!” Kageyama went. “But Kunimi said—”

At this point, Kunimi and Kindaichi, who were pretending very hard that they weren’t listening, both went rigid. Kindaichi was _super_ red. Kunimi said, “I didn’t say anything, dumbass!”

Hajime sighed. “Kunimi, don’t go telling Kageyama things like that just because he’s gullible.”

“I’m not gullible,” Kageyama said, though he sounded unsure, at the same time Kunimi blurted, “But you two—“

“O-ho? Why are you here terrorizing our first-years already?” Oikawa arrived and slung his full weight over Hajime so that he staggered; it was sheer luck that he caught the tail end of Kunimi’s muttered little “— _obviously_.”

Hajime narrowed his eyes. Kunimi was by far the most observant first-year, and his judgement on and off the court was sound. Unlike Kageyama, Kunimi _wasn’t_ pure, so Hajime wouldn’t put it past him to get an idea and simply decide he was right. First-years were impressionable like that. Anyway, Hajime didn’t expect anyone to understand the bizarre telepathy he and Oikawa shared. “You’ve got it wrong,” Hajime said, not willing to give the baseless thought any more fuel. “We’re nothing like that. This guy just doesn’t have a concept of personal space.”

“Rude,” Oikawa said, squishing Hajime’s cheeks together. Hajime punched the side of his head, and Oikawa yelped, before recovering to shout at the first-years: “Hey, squirts, wrap up those nets. Let’s practice some serves.”

Kunimi looked aggrieved all practice, and Kageyama only more befuddled. Hajime chalked it up to puberty.

**iii.**

Emotions were pretty high in the run-up to graduation, not least because they’d finally finished all the paperwork and told the team exactly what their plans were, now that it no longer felt like a jinx to do so. There was a lot of crying (Makki) and back-slapping (Mattsun) and blinking and going “Wow. Really?” (Kunimi, which resulted in Yahaba grabbing the collar of his shirt and seething _don’t doubt the awesomeness of our senpais_ , then Kyotani got randomly pissed and bit Yahaba’s arm, and it all devolved from there). There was more crying and Tooru saying “I will miss all of you, give your captain a hug,” and everyone brutally rejecting him.

They had a celebratory dinner two nights before graduation, sort of a team farewell. At the end of it Tooru found himself camped out in a children’s playground with three of his favorite people in the whole world, an illicit can of Asahi in hand, amazed all over again that he was going to be _leaving them soon._

“It’s just weird,” Makki murmured into the chilly air. He’d had a lot to drink. “I was so sure you two would be going to the same university.”

“ _Someone_ needs to leave the nest,” Iwa-chan said. “Besides, I don’t speak Spanish. Learning English was hard enough.”

“We’d been planning on it for a while,” Tooru added. He smiled now, to remember how they’d both been so touchy and tentative about their plans, nervous about hurting each other with it—how they’d blurted out what they were thinking at the same time, during an argument in a ramen shop. After two terrible evenings when it felt like mutual betrayal, Iwa-chan had turned up outside his house so they could talk it out, growling, “I’m not leaving til you show your shitty face, Shittykawa, let’s be fucking mature about this.” After some shouting and tears and shoulder-shaking it was almost _easy_. _You’ve got this,_ Iwa-chan had said, _let’s support each other. Whatever you want to do, you can do. You should do._

It was such a blessing, to know someone had his back so completely; someone would never say his dream was too big, while he filed his applications and trained and _hoped_. Whatever Tooru couldn’t contain inside himself, Iwa-chan understood and allowed for.

“But _still_ ,” Makki went on. He sounded on the verge of tears. “Isn’t it going to be super hard? Long distance?”

“ _Makki_ ,” Mattsun groaned. He sounded pretty tearful too.

It took Tooru a moment to register what they were saying. Iwa-chan said, “Yeah, the time difference is pretty bad.” Trust _him_ not to get it.

“Makki,” Tooru said, starting to crack up. “We’re not _dating_.”

“Oh, is _that_ what you meant? Ugh!” Iwa-chan slapped a hand onto his forehead, as Tooru burst out laughing. “God, why does everyone—”

“You’re not?!” Makki and Mattsun said in unison. They were both sitting up, looking from Iwa-chan to Tooru in shock.

“Oh my god,” Iwa-chan said, _truly_ suffering, which only made Tooru laugh more. “Matsukawa— _you too?_ ”

“I don’t _believe_ you,” Makki said, accusing and scandalized. “You don’t have to hide it anymore, you’re both _abandoning_ us anyway. Be honest!”

“We _are_ being honest,” Tooru said. “Makki! I like girls! Have you not noticed this whole time?”

“You could like both,” Mattsun muttered. Tooru stuck his tongue out at him.

“Don’t say you’re being honest, that makes it sound like you’re lying,” Iwa-chan grumbled. “Look—we’ve never dated, we never will. Do you think I hate myself?”

“Prove it,” Makki said. “If you kiss each other right now _I’ll_ decide whether you’re lying or not.”

“Shall we give them a show, Iwa-chan?” Tooru smiled coyly and reached out to cup Iwa-chan’s neck.

Iwa-chan snorted and batted his hand away. “None of you make any damn sense. What’s this going to prove? Aren’t you gonna take a photo to blackmail us?”

“No, I’m dead serious.” All the languidness had faded from Makki’s pose. Determination flared in his eyes. “No photos. Just show me—or are you scared of something?”

Iwa-chan looked at Tooru and shrugged. Tooru shrugged back. They were neither dating nor lying, so it seemed the path of least resistance; when Makki got like this it was hard to shake him off. “Fine,” Iwa-chan said. He leaned over and their lips touched.

If Makki had been expecting some critical moment or beautiful revelation, it didn’t happen. _Nothing_ happened. There was the briefest pause, then Iwa-chan leaned back and immediately took another swig of beer. “You’re all terrible people,” he intoned.

Tooru made a peace sign. “Our friendship is to be envied by all, but Iwa-chan simply can’t handle someone like me.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Woah, okay,” Mattsun said. He’d been utterly riveted, but now he deflated like a punctured balloon. “I totally read that wrong.”

“Holy shit, this is so _sad_ ,” Makki bawled. “True love does not exist!”

It was mystifying to Tooru that he then spent the next hour comforting his very drunk friend about the fact that he was definitely _not_ dating his much more sober best friend, but it was good in a way because it let him ignore the part of himself that had been _slightly_ , shamefully curious. Well, it was now satisfied, wasn’t it? He really didn’t feel _that way_ about Iwa-chan. Which was a relief. He already missed him horribly, but they were going to be okay—there was LINE, and video calls, and so many adventures to be had. At the end of the day they’d have many more stories to exchange, and they’d keep building each other up like they always had. That relationship seemed more perfect than anything else.

#

After separating for their respective homes, Makki found he was still not over this betrayal, and had to lean on Mattsun as they staggered home.

“Oh my god, they really _aren’t_ dating,” he groaned. He knew he was being petulant, but he _was_ sad about it. “When do you think they’ll figure it out?”

“I’m not surprised,” Mattsun sighed. “They’re complete idiots about their own feelings. Maybe never.”

**iv.**

Hajime’s first semester in California was as awful as one might expect. There was the exhaustion from classes, having copies of his notes in both English and Japanese so that he could say something intelligible in classes where participation counted; those agonizing moments when he’d stand in a circle of people speaking so quickly that he could either kill his brain trying to follow, or else enter a trancelike state of half-listening until things got better. There was realizing aspects of his personality had changed, like he was _shy_ —not something he’d ever been accused of back home—and everyone commending him on his patience. (Also not something he’d ever been praised for.) There was learning that Californians thought it was perfectly normal to say things like “Woah you’re super jacked” or “Damn you’re ripped,” which were adjectives he filed next to _buff_ and _shredded_ in an ever-lengthening list of _I guess these are compliments._

There was the homesickness that hit like a truck every so often, leaving him dazed, flattened by the ache of it: when Ricardo de Aguirre took him out for tonkotsu ramen because “he looked like he needed it”; when Susie Chen from BIO SCI 9G asked him for tips on where to go in Tokyo, and he’d shyly mentioned a few of his favorite places from field trips and practice games over the years, _but I’m no expert_ ; when Nicole Baker, the bubbly second-year who Student Academic Services paired him with as an English conversation mentor, surprised him with her nearly fluent Japanese.

“The trick is not to get embarrassed so much,” she reassured him. “About your accent, or whether you’re getting it wrong. The most important thing is you’re able to get your idea across.”

“Right,” he said, determined to improve. “Okay.”

He felt homesick too when Shittykawa texted or called, but it was bearable because he knew Oikawa was sharing in it, that feeling like you’d misplaced all your organs, your heart hurting for no discernible reason. It brought them closer, despite the fact that they were physically farther than Hajime had once thought possible. He worried sometimes—if living abroad was hard for him, it was probably worse for Oikawa, who despite appearances was constantly falling apart, and could do an amazing amount of self-destruction beneath bluster and charm. But the progress was there, like Hajime never doubted it would be. At least once a week they caught each other up, so that Hajime almost felt like he was in San Juan himself, walking that sunlit city, eating choripan and talking volleyball strategies with various teammates.

They got used to saying _I miss you_ —it was embarrassing at first, a little _too much_ , even for them, but it had slipped out of Oikawa once at the end of a phone call and Hajime had answered, unthinkingly, “Yeah, I miss you too.” It felt good to admit, honestly. Like someone reaching over to pull a warm blanket over him, to tell him _you’re not weak for finding this difficult_.

He survived the move, like he’d known through the haze of the darkest days he would; Oikawa did too.

#

In his third year in San Juan, Tooru found himself buzzed and warm and unable to say no to a third fernando, which did not sound like a lot to his teammates but was quite a lot for him. Nothing from the Lawson convenience store had ever prepared him for Fernet Branca, _especially_ not after several glasses of wine. It was fine because they had the next two days off and the match that day had gone beautifully; he’d felt the electricity of his own improvement, and the world seemed lovely and wide open, ripe for Tooru’s taking.

None of this explained how he’d ended up on the lap of some guy. The guy was really, really handsome, and he’d been grinning at Tooru all evening, something dark and dangerous in his gaze that made Tooru feel—well—pretty fucking sexy. Tooru had no problem finding other guys handsome, but he’d never wanted to kiss one before. He’d meant it when he told Makki he liked girls, and yet—somehow—this was the opposite of unpleasant, the man’s lips warm and wet on Tooru’s, tongue touching his, broad hands flat on the small of Tooru’s back, and Tooru forgot that he was in public and his teammates could maybe see him—who was he kidding, they were all way more drunk than him, at this point—and he was shocked at himself, at how his body was responding in all kinds of extremely concerning ways, and then—

 _Then_ —

He remembered a whole other kiss with a guy, a paperthin brush of nothing. A different intense gaze, and his favorite sound in the whole world (after the smack of a great serve on the court, of course): somebody’s laughter, the familiarity as he said, last night, “ _Okay,_ goodnight, Trashkawa. Miss you.”

 _Oh shit,_ Tooru thought. _Oh fuck._

His brain-to-body filter must have been operational because Random Hot Guy paused, pulled back, looked at him quizzically. “Sorry,” Tooru said, reaching desperately for his Spanish despite not being able to think straight—Iwa-chan would be so proud of him for compartmentalizing his freakout— _holy fuck he wanted to kiss Iwa-chan no no NO fucking way that was fucking impossible_ —“I’m not, I don’t actually, um—”

“It’s okay,” the man said, laughing. Like he made out with cute foreigners in bars all the time, and maybe he did. Tooru felt unceremoniously sick, slapped in the face with a discovery so terrible his limbs almost ceased functionality. It took everything he had to lever himself out of this man’s lap and onto solid ground again, though it felt distinctly not-solid. Mateo, bless his heart, came over and laughingly steered Tooru to the bathroom, where he dry-heaved for a few seconds, before crouching next to the sink and sighing, deep enough to exorcise this new knowledge from his being.

“Toto? You all right?”

“ _No,_ ” he groaned, because Tooru believed in letting his team carry _some_ of the weight. _Someone_ had burned that idea into him, years and years ago, eyes angry and forehead bruised. Someone he wanted to see _right now_ , and also could never face again. Someone he was, apparently, in love with.

#

Tooru was still thinking about Iwaizumi Hajime the next morning, afternoon, and evening. He could not deal with the idea that he was _gay over Iwa-chan_ , _oh god_. He attempted troubleshooting. Saying no to it. Grumbling “I don’t really feel that way!” Reminding himself he wasn’t into guys. Anyway he needed to focus on volleyball. It all chalked up to a whole lot of nothing; it was a miracle he did not get run over from walking around in a gloomy cloud all day. He did get a volleyball to the face halfway through a pick-up game and had to take a breather, pressing a towel against his nose, regretting his whole life. Shortly after dinner he got a text: _hey, everything okay?_

His heartbeat sped up. _Heart, you’re an idiot!_ Tooru was furious at everything, at how happy and stupid he simultaneously felt, how he had to do a full lap around his table before he was calm enough to pick up the phone. Thank god his roommate was out for the evening.

He had a moment when he felt delirious enough to say _I LOVE YOU, FUCK,_ then he regained control of his senses and texted back: _I’m fine! Just busy <3_

Iwa-chan started ringing him. _Why do you have to be so psychic all the time_ , Tooru thought, with more anger than was probably warranted. Since he did have work the next day and he was developing a migraine, he answered the call. “Yo.”

“Hey.” A pause. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Uh-huh. You’re really gonna try that with me?”

“Iwa-chan,” he muttered, tears welling in his eyes, because this was the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. He couldn’t lose his best friend to this. “Sorry, it’s just—I had a great game yesterday and everything was great and then suddenly I…” What could he say? What could capture everything he was suddenly feeling, how much he didn’t want it, how it was happening anyway, against every survival instinct Tooru had? “…I missed you,” he said, and bit his lip before he could make this worse.

He heard a door click shut somewhere on the other end of the line: Iwa-chan moving into a private space, knowing what a state Tooru was in. It was so considerate, it made Tooru’s teeth ache. “I miss you too,” Iwa-chan said quietly, simply. It had been nine months since they last saw each other in Miyagi, for New Year’s; Iwa-chan didn’t go home for the brief time Tooru was back in Japan during the summer because he had an internship. He’d sounded miserable about it, but Tooru understood. They knew what each other’s dreams were, what sacrifices were necessary.

“I don’t think you miss me the same way,” Tooru said. He was getting into _extremely_ dangerous territory now, nearly flaying himself with it. “I—it was all so good and suddenly it was awful.”

Iwa-chan laughed, a tired little broken laugh. “It’s not the Misery Olympics, Oikawa,” he said. “I’d kill to see you right now. And stop crying. Seriously. It’s going to be okay.” Tooru rubbed his watery eyes, indignant. It was only okay because Iwa-chan’s voice was soft now, the auditory equivalent of knuckles kneading his shoulder, reassuring as anything. “Do you…want to come visit sometime? If you have a break in your schedule? I have a long weekend next month. You could meet some of my friends.”

The flood of feelings that engulfed Tooru then wasn’t actually bearable—how much he loved this man, how that voice in his ear was suddenly doing all kinds of weird things to Tooru’s chest, how terrible it was that Iwa-chan had any friends in the world besides him, how he was so completely misreading Tooru’s dramatic confession but maybe that was exactly what Tooru wanted. Because this secret was too big and awful to both contain and confess, he groped for a middle ground, saying: “Okay, fine, I’ll check. Maybe.”

#

Something was wrong with Oikawa. He was hiding it well, was effervescent and cheerful as ever when Hajime picked him up from LAX. He was gracious to all of Hajime’s friends, engaging in conversation despite being tired; he even insisted that they go for dinner at In n Out, though Hajime offered to order in. He’d blustered a lot about taking Hajime’s bed, kept insisting the couch was fine, until Hajime said that if he didn’t shut up about it he’d clamber into bed next to him when there _clearly wasn’t enough space_ , which silenced him pretty quick. Hajime chalked it up to his glad feelings that Oikawa was around that he didn’t notice at first—how Oikawa couldn’t meet his eyes, how he bristled whenever they touched.

Shittykawa thought he was _so smart_. Hajime waited until they were almost at Yosemite before bringing it up. It had been a long drive—he’d picked Yosemite partly because he’d already hiked all the places closer to Irvine, and he wanted to experience someplace new with Oikawa. They’d talked throughout it, catching each other up, in more detail than they could manage on video calls. Finally there was a lull in the conversation. Oikawa hummed and fiddled with Spotify; Hajime thought he ought to try.

“So are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

“Hmm?”

“Something’s eating you up.”

“I don’t think so?”

“You haven’t looked me in the eye this whole time.”

“Woah, Iwa-chan. If you want to make eye contact with me, all you need to do is ask.”

He waited, patiently, while the GPS informed them to take the next exit. He could feel the tension burbling up in Oikawa, could sense him weighing and discarding possibilities, the rapid-fire calculus of _what to do next._ That was troubling, because usually Oikawa didn’t need to _do_ that around him. Their friendship had survived this long partly _because_ it was instinctual, didn’t need words or explanations. This was different—Hajime was genuinely puzzled—and he could solve it with more clues, or Oikawa could save them both a lot of trouble and tell him.

Finally Oikawa said, in a small, pinched voice, “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

Hajime tried to ignore how it stung. Oikawa should have known that Hajime could carry it, whatever it was. There were only a handful of things that Oikawa got _this_ sensitive about: volleyball, his family, his relationships. It was a big deal. “Okay,” Hajime said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The GPS cheerfully announced that they’d arrived at their destination. Hajime rolled into the parking lot, cut the engine, and ruffled Oikawa’s hair. There was a faraway, dismal expression lurking in Oikawa’s eyes, but he was wearing his _see I’m brave_ smile, and Hajime didn’t want to push. They checked into the lodge, Hajime doing his best to make small talk with the receptionist while Oikawa inspected a nearby rack of brochures.

“There’s a great grill about ten minutes away from here,” she said, procuring a menu. “They do $2 margaritas on Saturdays. I bet you and your boyfriend would have a nice time there.”

“Thanks,” Hajime said, taking the menu and folding it into his shorts. He hesitated—even after three years here he felt nervous whenever he tried to be as direct as Americans, especially to strangers—but he knew it was usually worse not to say anything. “He’s not my boyfriend. Just my best friend, visiting from Argentina.”

“Oh!” The receptionist wasn’t even fazed as she slid over their keys. “Sorry. You two look good together, that’s all. Don’t mean to make it awkward.”

“No worries,” Hajime said, and added, “We get that all the time.” He picked up the keys, gave her another smile, and turned to Oikawa, who was extremely preoccupied with a pamphlet about Half Dome. “Sorry, we can’t climb that one,” Hajime said. “I didn’t win the reservation lottery.”

“We’ll go next time.” Oikawa’s _I’m brave_ smile had become much more brittle.

“Yeah,” Hajime said, hoping that he’d get to the bottom of whatever was eating Oikawa up by the end of this weekend. It was really starting to hurt to see him like this. He couldn’t ignore how much Oikawa liked shouldering burdens alone. “Come on, let’s dump our bags.”

They made their way down a creaky hallway, up a flight of stairs, and Hajime let them into room 202. There was a stunning view of the woods through the windows; he opened them up for fresh air. Tooru lingered by the doorway for a moment. Then he set his backpack down and sat on the edge of the bed. Hajime tried not to tense as he set his own bag down and pretended to rifle through it for snacks, or whatever.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa started.

 _Oh shit_ , Hajime thought. _Here we go_.

“You got only one bed?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “It was the only vacancy they had left. It _is_ a long weekend.” _And I don’t know why you’re being so fucking weird about this, it’s not like you ever cared before._ He didn’t say that. It was another clue.

“Oh.”

Hajime found a semi-crushed pack of Oreos and straightened up, opening it up and sticking a cookie in his mouth, mostly to have something to do with his hands. He was suddenly afraid. If Oikawa was hesitating this much it was probably worse than he thought.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa started again. He gathered into himself, shrank and shrank, so that you wouldn’t be able to guess this kid had traveled across the world to become a professional athlete in a country he’d never once been to. “I’m bi.”

It was so quiet Hajime swore he could _hear_ Oikawa’s heartbeat, the rabbity pulse of his fear. It was heartbreaking: the droop of his shoulders and the way his eyes never lifted from the floor, how terrified he was over something that _wasn’t wrong in any way_. It made Hajime angry, imagining what it must have been like for Oikawa to agonize over this. _Unnecessarily_. He strode over, crouched, frowned up at Oikawa’s face. When Oikawa tried to look away Hajime sighed and cupped his cheeks. “So?”

Tears made Oikawa’s eyes glossy. Hajime was struck with a memory of Oikawa crying the same way in kindergarten—he’d been upset about the girls playing house, and Hajime had said the wrong thing, but he couldn’t remember what. Probably he’d been too blunt.

“So I’m sorry—I like guys too—if you think it’s weird it’s okay—”

“What the fuck do you have to be sorry for? It’s not weird.”

Tears were streaming down Oikawa’s face now. He sniffed back some snot. “You—you’re—it’s okay with you?”

“Of course it’s okay, dumbass. There’s nothing _wrong_ with it. God! I thought you’d done something horrible,” and it was true, this had not even been among Hajime’s list of worries. He was acutely relieved. “Shit. You were gonna give me a heart attack.”

“But aren’t you, don’t you think,” Oikawa could hardly talk. Hajime’s heart hurt all over again. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to hang out or share beds or…I mean…you’re honestly not scared…of me?”

Hajime straightened up and pulled Oikawa in for a hug, pressed his friend’s tear-stained face to his belly and smoothed his hair, trying to communicate what he was feeling, with all honesty. “That doesn’t change you and it doesn’t change us, _and I would never be scared of you anyway_. You can like whoever you want, Oikawa.” He swallowed. “This must have been so hard for you.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa managed. He started crying with abandon, and Hajime had to laugh now, it was all right, sheesh, things were going to be okay. “Don’t laugh, you asshole,” Oikawa said, but he sounded lighter now, freed from this weight, and Hajime nodded and held him tighter. He understood why it was frightening, that it was tougher to admit to the people you were closest to. Hajime didn’t have secrets like that but he could imagine what it was like, at least for his best friend. He held Oikawa until he stopped shaking, wrapped in his arms, stabilized there, and he thought: _this is easy, I can carry this. I won’t let it hurt like this again_.

#

Oikawa was mostly back to normal after that. They did end up eating at the grill, taking an evening walk on a path close to their inn, but they had an early start the next day, so they turned in early. Oikawa was reaching the tail end of a story about Takeru and his runaway hamster. Hajime had a niggling thought that he didn’t know how to broach gracefully, but it was now or never.

“Hey, Oikawa,” he said. “Um. Even if it’s with guys, you have to, y’know. Um. _Use stuff_.”

Oikawa’s jaw dropped. “Are you talking to me about _protection,_ Iwa-chan? Oh my god. _I want to die._ ”

“Well if you did you’d be doing me a favor,” Hajime retorted. He knew his face was going red, but this was a valiant cause to sacrifice his dignity for. “‘Cause, sometimes you’re reckless, and I have no idea what the hookup scene is like in Buenos Aires, so, you know, I thought I’d regret it if I didn’t say anything. _Shittykawa_.”

Now Oikawa’s eyes were narrowing. “Why do _you_ know so much about this anyway? Are you—do you like guys too?”

“No,” Hajime answered automatically. “It’s…look, this part of the US is a lot more open than Japan about that kind of stuff, so I learned a lot. And um. My freshman year roommate was gay.”

Oikawa’s eyes were now practically slits. “He was hitting on you?”

“He—” Hajime had been a complete dunce about it, confusing blatant flirting for some mix of Californian friendliness and American boldness. In his defense, trying to decode someone’s romantic interest towards him wasn’t in any of his English language textbooks. Hajime had never been an object of admiration in high school. Someone else had sucked up all the attention in the room, so it was novel and slightly uncomfortable now whenever a girl would slip him her number, or a guy would get handsy at a party—and he _was_ on the receiving end of both. He didn’t mind it. He actually thought it was quite nice that people were so open here. He was almost certain he wouldn’t have learned or understood any of this, if he’d stayed in Japan. Misconceptions about him and Oikawa since forever notwithstanding. “—he asked me out a few times, yeah, before I got what he was saying. I wasn’t interested but I felt bad turning him down.”

They didn’t end up roommates last year, not because they didn’t get along, but because Josh said he needed his heart to be okay and that wouldn’t happen if Hajime was around. The sweetness of the confession surprised and troubled him. Josh was a great guy—but Hajime simply didn’t feel that way about him. Or anyone else.

“Oh,” Oikawa said. A complicated emotion came over his face, settling finally on something…Hajime still didn’t know what it was. Calm. A kind of after-storm stillness, and resolve. “I see.” Oikawa rolled over so he was looking up at the ceiling, then said, a bit hesitantly, “You’d tell me if there was someone you liked, right?”

“What, are we in middle school?” He’d sat through too many whining sessions where Oikawa had complained about this or that girl not being interested in him, which was practically a _crime_ given his beauty. That had changed in high school, when the entire female population of Seijou had worshipped at Trashkawa’s feet, and Oikawa started to have eyes only for volleyball. Eventually they simply stopped talking about girls. Come to think of it, it _was_ a little bit weird now, not having a dating life as an undergrad—but Hajime was too busy.

“You always listen to me but you never tell me who _you_ like,” Oikawa said. He rolled over so that he was on his stomach, and leaned his chin on one hand. Conspiratorially, he said, “Come on, Iwa-chan. It’s Nicole, isn’t it? Your English tutor?”

“Nicole’s just my friend,” Hajime answered. “I don’t like anyone.”

Oikawa pouted.

“ _Yes_ , I’ll tell you if I do. There’s no one. God, you’re so annoying.”

“Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“Nothing,” Hajime sighed. “Come on, turn off the lamp, we’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

He settled down and pulled the blanket up, surprised at his own exhaustion. The light clicked shut.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Mmm?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me if _I_ like anyone?”

Totally middle school. Even back then Hajime was not particularly fond of guessing games. “Who do you like?”

There was a long pause. So long it was possible Hajime fell asleep and woke up again, or maybe there was something about the quiet that made him worry, enough that he considered turning the lamp on again to make _sure_ Oikawa was all right. It seemed obvious now. Not only was Oikawa worried about being queer, someone was messing up his heart. Probably one of his teammates or a mentor figure of some kind that Oikawa’s wretched brain had decided was off limits. He’d done that to every single one of his girl crushes in middle school, put them on some kind of pedestal. And being new to liking guys probably made it harder. It would be more complicated, after all.

Hajime stayed quiet; the ceiling sharpened into focus as he waited.

“I’m not telling,” Oikawa finally said.

“Someone I wouldn’t approve of, then.”

Oikawa burst out laughing. The sound filled up Hajime’s chest, comforting in its familiarity and childish delight. Hajime realized he hadn’t heard it much on this trip, and that made him sad all over again. “I don’t know, you might get along,” Oikawa said. “I’ll tell you if it works out. Night-night, Iwa-chan.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” Hajime made a mental note to press Oikawa for details next time, but one groundbreaking confession was enough for that day. Also, it sounded like he didn’t have to worry about some jerk actively breaking Shittykawa’s heart. Not yet, anyway.

#

Tooru learned a lot of cool things during this visit to America. Like: he could apparently eat two double-doubles from In-n-Out and still want, though technically be unable to eat, a third. Or: _hella_ was another way of saying _very_. Or: hiking switchback trails for seven hours roundtrip was a bitch on your legs, no matter what kind of shape you were in.

Back in Iwa-chan’s Irvine apartment, holding some ice against his legs so his coach wouldn’t yell at him _too_ much upon his return, Tooru pondered on three essential truths he’d landed on.

1\. He was completely and irrevocably in love with Iwa-chan. _Fuck_.

2\. Iwa-chan did not mind him being queer, and it was so sweet and wonderful and such a relief. He knew from the beginning he shouldn’t have worried except he couldn’t help it; Iwa-chan’s friendship was almost the most precious thing in the world to him. If anything threatened it Tooru would go mad. Of course Iwa-chan was perfectly cool about it, except apparently he felt the need to lecture Tooru about safe sex, which was godawful.

3\. The entirety of the weekend had made it very, very clear that Iwa-chan did not harbor feelings like that for him in _any way_. Which made sense. Tooru had felt that way about Iwa-chan until a few weeks ago, so like, _he got it._ He had cared so little he didn’t even mind people making jokes about it! He’d been so blasé about that kiss right before high school graduation, which was the one kiss they would _ever share_ , and he’d thoroughly squandered it.

Iwa-chan had said it himself, that he wasn’t into guys. It was tearing Tooru to pieces thinking about the roommate who had asked Iwa-chan out _more than once_ , the sheer audacity of it, while here Tooru was doing everything possible to kill his feelings dead. It shouldn’t be a big deal. There was no place for it in either of their lives.

He knew he was lying to himself because he’d spent two nights clammed up in a bed trying not to expire; he’d had to meditate to calm down his boner the first night, and once he’d gotten over _that_ it was an entirely different pain, Iwa-chan being so close and Tooru unable to touch him. (It was unfair that Iwa-chan was mad at _him_ for being tired during the hike the next day, when it was Iwa-chan’s damn fault.)

It got even worse the second night, when he’d woken up sometime too early in the morning, shivery and really…lonely _._ He’d somehow wandered too close to Iwa-chan in his sleep, tugged towards him like some moth that didn’t value its life. In his groggy exhaustion it seemed impossible to wriggle away, so he stayed there. In that little window of time Iwa-chan had grunted, shifted, murmured “Mmkawa?” and reached over—easy as anything—to drape one arm over Tooru’s shoulder, dragging him in closer and shuffling forward so that they were pressed together. He wasn’t even awake. Tooru had a spasm of panic when he was _sure_ he’d die from his heart exploding, incinerated by the force of his own longing. Then the moment passed and he’d felt calm, enveloped in Iwa-chan’s warmth.

He woke up first, still wrapped in Iwa-chan’s arms, and didn’t move. _This is perfect_ , Tooru thought, _this is all I ever want_. That wasn’t exactly true—there was _everything_ he wanted besides this—but the startling clarity of it, followed by the impossibility, was unbearable. He bore it anyway. He cradled the warmth in his feelings, like it was already a memory, and allowed himself to smile when Iwa-chan made his waking-up sounds, curling his arms tighter around Tooru. _Like an instinct. Like maybe there’s some part of you that knows._ The hope hurt.

Iwa-chan woke up and pulled back—gently, carefully—easing his arm out from under Tooru’s head, in case Tooru was still asleep. Tooru’s heart broke as Iwa-chan smoothed his hair, then sat up, yawning.

 _Welp_ , Tooru thought, and rolled over. “Good morning,” he said.

Iwa-chan finished his yawn, then looked down at him, eyes filled with tenderness. There had to be another word for it, this wasn’t right; but Tooru couldn’t think of anything else. “Morning.”

He was too sun-dazzled by Iwa-chan’s expression to think anything dirty, much less come up with innuendoes to wreck the moment. He’d spent so many nights leading up to this trip imagining what sex with Iwa-chan would be like, but he couldn’t even pretend that was on his mind. Instead he thought: _I wish this was love, I want to be wrapped in this forever._

And: _Stop looking at me like that._

“Sleep okay?” Iwa-chan asked. He didn’t know, didn’t care, that Tooru was telepathically yelling _I want to spoon with you for all eternity!!_ Hadn’t they been cuddling? Except Iwa-chan would probably think that was entirely normal for them—well, it kinda had been—and if Tooru wanted it to stay normal he had to suck all of this up.

“Great,” Tooru lied. “Tacos for breakfast?”

He’d decided, watching Iwa-chan drench his tacos in far too much Tabasco, that he’d be all right with this. In fact, he wanted this _more_ : staying friends with Iwa-chan, while painful, was infinitely better than telling him how he felt. Iwa-chan cared so much for him he’d try to do something about it. Maybe he’d even convince himself he had feelings for Tooru, to make it okay. Tooru could see Iwa-chan doing that. And it would be so kind of him…and it wouldn’t be real. Tooru could think of nothing that would hurt more (well, that and not getting onto the team starting roster in the next decision cycle, but yes). He didn’t even have it in him to attempt seduction, a conclusion that would’ve made high school Oikawa very sad.

_He’s not my boyfriend. Just my best friend, visiting from Argentina._

Right. They weren’t like that. They’d never be.

“Do you want your home fries,” Iwa-chan said. Tooru laughed and forked half of them onto Iwa-chan’s plate.

#

Well. Silence had been the plan, anyway.

Tooru was great at planning and even better at execution, except when it came to things like lying to his best friend. At the airport, standing in line for security, he found himself latched onto Iwa-chan and unable to let go.

“I’ll see you at New Year’s,” Iwa-chan said. “Right? You got a few days?” To his credit he didn’t try to disentangle himself or pry Tooru away—it wasn’t like Tooru thought he’d do that, even. But maybe if he did Tooru would stop feeling so smitten. “That’s not too far. And you can call me anytime—you know that, right? Don’t keep things bottled up anymore, it’s not good for your health.”

“Right,” Tooru said, willing his arms to _stop_. No dice. Iwa-chan smelled too good and they fit too well together, and Tooru could miss his flight for this, but he shouldn’t. He opened his mouth to say goodbye.

What came out instead was “It’s you, stupid.”

It was like those moments when he’d made a wrong play in a game and knew it. From the moment the ball left his fingers everything went in slow motion, he could see the trainwreck about to happen, already hear the smack of the ball on the court and the traitorous whistleblow, and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t turn back time no matter how badly he wanted to.

“What?”

“Nothing!” He stepped back—too quick, he was too quick, he was giving himself away, getting teary again, _fuck_.

“Hey, Oikawa,” Iwa-chan said, gripping his shoulder, “What was that?”

“I should go, the security line’s pretty long,” he said, and because Iwa-chan was great at _not giving him an inch, sheesh,_ he made things more suspicious by saying, “It was nothing, I was spacing out.”

Iwa-chan frowned at him, with that awful x-ray peel-your-skin-apart scrutiny. Tooru tried to telegraph frantically: _no, seriously no, I’m not doing this right now, if I break down here I really might miss my flight._ Stupid, stupid Tooru. And stupid fucking Iwa-chan, for that matter. Tooru could feel his face hot and desperate. And, yep, the tears were there. Whatever expression he was making, Iwa-chan finally relented, letting go of his sleeve. Tooru couldn’t tell if he understood or not, but he wasn’t about to clarify. “Call me when you’re settled.”

Tooru nodded, the tears receded, and everything was chill. He sucked in a breath, said, “Miss you already,” and left.

He cried the whole flight home. He couldn’t tell if it was panic over what just happened or relief that he didn’t have to talk about it. Or maybe it was that being apart from Iwa-chan had always hurt, but it was _worse now_ and that was how things had to be. For now and maybe forever. (He hadn’t told him about the Argentina Plan yet. Anyway there seemed no point to it now.)

Back in his apartment, grumpy about his puffy eyes and the constriction in his chest, Tooru calmed down enough to think things through. Maybe nothing was different after all. Iwa-chan probably had no idea what he was referring to, or hadn’t heard him clearly. It was simply his best friend Spidey Sense tingling.

Nothing was going to change. They were going to be okay.

**v.**

Hajime had a problem.

He kept mentally picking it up and putting it back down. He wasn’t an idiot. He cared a lot more than he let on, with everyone and everything, though he was fairly sure a ton of people saw through him. (Ratnika, his lab mate in CHEM 1LC, called him “a big old softie,” a label he didn’t know what to do with, because it was embarrassing but also not…untrue?) Hajime was generally good at being honest with himself, and that included admitting when he had no fucking clue what to do next.

Because—Oikawa liked him. Probably. That’s what he meant, right? _It’s you_. Hajime had been on hyper alert all weekend, trying to decode everything messing Oikawa up. He’d thought the queerness was the main thing, had barely paid attention to the crush comment because Oikawa had always been pretty nonchalant about who he found attractive (there’d been a running joke, all through third year, that he was gonna bone Mattsun one of those days simply on the strength of those eyebrows—and he hadn’t even known he was bi then). Some part of Hajime had thought that despite a few girlfriends Oikawa simply wasn’t cut out for romance; no relationship could survive the all-consuming nature of Oikawa’s volleyball. The idea of Oikawa having a fling here or there didn’t bother him, which might’ve had something to do with surviving UCI dorm life for two years. As much as he worried over Oikawa he also trusted him completely.

So it made no sense at all that Oikawa liked him. Like that. If that’s what he meant. Which Hajime thought he probably did. But that conclusion made him _super uneasy._

If someone asked him how he felt about Oikawa, he’d say he thought Oikawa was the worst person in the world, which was true. He’d _also_ have no problem admitting he loved Oikawa—if that was the question. Of course he loved Shittykawa. He’d loved him through his kindergarten crybaby days and the million different hobbies he tried throughout elementary school before settling on volleyball; he’d loved him for getting so great at his game, and winning best middle school setter; he’d loved him as Seijou’s volleyball team captain, who was both an utter dork with a shitty personality and also the most amazing person Hajime had ever known. He loved him with a bonedeep certainty, how his dreams were so huge and how much he cared for his people, how he was any team’s ideal setter because he was so _good_ at making a ragtag group of players a family. Any time Hajime felt uncertain, afraid, lost—he thought of Oikawa and somehow found the strength to face things again.

If he never said this aloud it was because he didn’t need to; they’d been reading each others’ expressions and gestures and insults for years, had the complete dictionaries to each other, updated editions.

And still he didn’t see this coming.

He _loved_ Oikawa, unconditionally and utterly, but—not that way.

That Oikawa could even be attracted to him was ridiculous. He was just…like, himself. There wasn’t anything _there_. He had nothing in common with Oikawa’s types (which, granted, had been mostly extremely pretty girls). He understood being _comfortable_ to Oikawa, like those ratty old plushies he never threw out because they were nostalgic and familiar. And of course there were all the benefits of being childhood best friends: their families were close, so many of their interests and hobbies intersected, and those that didn’t they’d learned to either support or put up with, like how Oikawa now knew way more about Godzilla than the casual fan. Their countless hours hanging out, talking, even staying silent together, like they’d done for half the hike last weekend—all of it was easy as breathing.

Which was exactly what made this so hard. He didn’t like the idea of breaking Oikawa’s heart, and it seemed like he’d do it either way. Rough handling, bad form. He couldn’t lie about this. Oikawa wouldn’t want that. But he couldn’t change how he felt either, which was…not that.

How long had Oikawa been feeling this way? Fuck.

An uncomfortable memory plucked at him, of that time Makki dared them to kiss. He could’ve sworn Oikawa felt the same way he did then: that it was stupid to think they’d ever be attracted to each other. It was a joke. So when did things change? And _why?_

They’d talked normally on the phone, right before Oikawa boarded his flight, and again when Oikawa got home. Hajime tried not to notice how Oikawa sounded a little nasal, because he’d been putting up such a brave front. It wasn’t fair. And he didn’t know how to fix this.

 _Why me, Shittykawa?_ He exhaled, glaring up at his ceiling, willing it to give him some answer. It didn’t. He fell asleep feeling raw and desperate and angry, even if he knew no one was to blame.

#

_Iwa-chan guess what_

_What_

_I made the starting lineup in the latest team shuffle_

_That’s fucking awesome  
_ _You’re amazing_

 _Yeah yeah I know  
_ _Omg wow you’re using a champagne bottle emoji Iwa-chan I’m so proud of you_

_Can I call you?_

_Sorry—super busy rn  
_ _Let’s talk this weekend_

_I miss you_

_< 3 Of course you do_

_#_

Were they different? Was this different? Oikawa called him less, but said that was team stuff; Hajime’s overflowing academic calendar didn’t really mind. When they spoke, Oikawa sounded tired but happy. If there was anything shading his words— _longing is not it!!_ —well, shit, Hajime didn’t know how to ask him. _Why me, seriously?_ probably wasn’t what Oikawa wanted to hear. But it was such an important, destructive question that Hajime was spending an unhealthy amount of energy over it, _and he didn’t have the time_.

It hurt to imagine what Oikawa might be feeling. That maybe he ought to stop being so nice. It was like Josh told him— _I can’t be around you if I want to recover, because you’re going to keep reminding me why I like you._ Hajime wasn’t conscious of anything he did, but he _knew_ what Oikawa was like, soldiering through everything. It was a miracle that he didn’t have any permanent injuries.

This wouldn’t be that, right? Oikawa couldn’t like Hajime _that_ much. Maybe Hajime was giving himself too much credit. It was scary to be so uncertain. He’d thought he could manage anything Oikawa-related; it sucked to be proven wrong.

This was a temporary thing. What they were to each other was everlasting, but Oikawa thinking he might have feelings for Hajime would fade. Hajime didn’t think Oikawa was _easy_ with his feelings, but he could see them getting twisted up with homesickness and comfort. They’d untangle eventually. Oikawa would realize Hajime wasn’t worth liking _like that_ , and they could go back to sharing beds and fighting over the last piece of gyoza and Tekken vs Street Fighter and holding each other when they cried. Right?

_No, absolutely not, Hajime, you idiot. Figure this out and fix this._

It ate away at him like a nasty parasite while Oikawa kept acting normal. He knew that wasn’t the solution, but he couldn’t think what else to do.

#

Nicole did ask him out. They were talking about Halloween costumes because Hajime was still traumatized from his first ever American Halloween party. Pete Werner, the other research assistant in Dr. Utsui’s lab, was trying to figure out matching outfits. Hajime was too burnt out to protest. It would be nice if someone came up with an idea for him. So far they’d discarded the Olsen Twins and jellyfish. Nicole was off on a mini-rant about how most of her hallmates want to go as Sexy Mario Kart, then she said, casually, “Anyway, Hajime, did you want to go out for dinner sometime?”

They usually did conversation practice or tutoring sessions in coffee shops, so Hajime said, “Oh, should we reschedule to evening for the next meeting?”

“No, silly,” Nicole said. Her cheeks had gone faintly pink. “I’m asking you out.”

“Ah,” he said, feeling stupid. He’d been feeling that way a lot recently, and it had nothing to do with getting the wrong prof for mandatory Econ this time. “Um.”

“You don’t have to give me an answer right away,” she added, laughing. “You can take some time to think about it. We’re not behind the school yard or anything.” Nicole read a lot of manga. She read a lot of doujinshi, too, something she’d had to confess—she hadn’t been _that_ bothered by it—because Hajime Saw Something He Shouldn’t Have inside her clear folder once.

Nicole was super pretty. Hajime liked her a lot. She’d given him confidence in his English when he’d been convinced he’d flunk out and have to return to Japan, because sitting through lectures was _nothing like the TOEFL_. She’d told him he would make it, and he did. She was easy to be around. She knew the entire cast of _One Piece_ and _Naruto_ but her favorite manga was _Eyeshield 21,_ which was also in Hajime’s Top Five _._ Her eyes were huge and brown and kinda sparkled when she talked about the things she liked. Hajime considered all of these things in record time, all the reasons why maybe it would be good to date her, and yet.

“Unless you’re seeing someone else?” she prodded.

“Huh? No. I’m not.” Hajime’s face warmed up. “Nicole, seriously.”

Nicole got her devious look. “Okay. I was only checking.”

“Wha—who do you think—”

“I thought maybe Tooru,” she said, nonplussed. He’d introduced himself to everyone that way: _Hi, I’m Tooru._

Hajime felt like someone had drop-kicked him in the gut. He’d taken taekwondo for two years in elementary, so he knew precisely how shitty that felt. “ _What?_ ”

Nicole gave him an appraising look. “Oh. You’re really not. Well, lucky for me then.”

“You know he’s my best friend.” _Osanajimi_ , he’d told her the first time he mentioned Oikawa, because Nicole liked practicing her Japanese sometimes too. It didn’t translate perfectly into English, but anything else would be too long, too hard to put into words.

“Yeah,” she said. “You guys just had this interesting aura. And he’s super cute. But you’re more my type.”

“Thanks.” Hajime felt a stress headache coming on. “Sorry, Nicole, I really am gonna…need to think about it. But I _like you a lot_ ,” he added, nervous—he didn’t want to lose her, as a tutor but much more importantly as a friend. If she Josh’d him and noped out of his life he’d feel terrible.

“I know,” she answered, gentle. “Don’t do me any favors, though.”

In a different timeline, someone smarter than Hajime would find it awesome that all these ridiculously attractive people were somehow into him, but unfortunately he was in _this_ reality, where he didn’t have normal feelings and thought crushes needed to be solved like physics problems. He was making it hard on himself, he knew. He just didn’t want to hurt anyone.

#

Maybe part of the problem was that for as long as they’d been friends people assumed there was something more between them, and Hajime got too good at explaining how they weren’t like that.

He’d finished his Physio paper sooner than expected, so he was faced with an entire Sunday afternoon to figure out this shit. With a heavy heart, he decided he’d better stop running.

So. Oikawa liked him.

Reflexively Hajime didn’t like the idea—wanted to push it a mile away—but he was going to get to the bottom of _why_.

He didn’t like it because he didn’t…see Oikawa that way.

What way?

Like. Finding him cute. Wanting to hold him. Or make out with him. Er.

Having opened the lid on this, _slightly,_ he immediately wanted to slam it back down. He’d always thought Oikawa was good looking. Even before everyone else did, when Shittykawa’s hair was stupid and his legs were chickenlike, ie, early middle school. He was sore about the five centimeters thing, but Hajime was secure enough in his own body that he could admit Oikawa was proportionally perfect. It was rare for someone so athletic to be so pretty, too. As for physical contact with Oikawa—that was _weird_ —because they already did a lot of that stuff? Well, not kissing. But hugging. Leaning on each other’s shoulders, or. Using each other’s laps as pillows. Holding hands. Sleeping next to each other.

Fuck. Hajime swallowed. He recalled that second night at Yosemite. Waking up to find Oikawa tucked up against him, how it didn’t seem weird that he was so close. His hair smelled nice. He’d been…really soft, which seemed like a stupid thing to think. He’d fit nicely in Hajime’s arms.

Still, kissing him was…that was out of the question…well, they’d done it once, hadn’t they? In a dingy playground in Miyagi. It had been a peck, mostly to shut Makki up, and it hadn’t mattered at all. So there was that. If he thought of kissing Oikawa _now_ …

The lid slammed back down, hard, but several images had escaped, of Oikawa making out with random Argentinians, because there _were_ always new people in all of Oikawa’s group selfies. Great. Now Hajime had a ghostly picture of someone with their hand on Oikawa’s cheek, shifting their head to get a good smooch in, and it was comical, but also _so detailed_ it was making him a little…angry.

Not a great sign.

Did his unease have to do with liking guys, at all? Definitely no. It was such a non-issue Hajime didn’t even need to think more about it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t imagine himself with guys; it was that he’d been uninterested in _anyone_ for the longest time. It would maybe be complicated with his family, yeah, and folks back home in general—it wasn’t easy to be queer in Japan, just like it still wasn’t easy in the US, and he knew he was on a pretty open campus. It was challenging—but it seemed to matter less than having genuine feelings for someone.Except _haha_ , that was assuming…this train of thinking would go somewhere. Which it wouldn’t.

Was it that Oikawa was…well, Oikawa? That he mattered too much? Hajime liked where he was in Oikawa’s life, how they drew strength from each other, their absolute perfect trust—no matter how Iwa-chan liked to deny it—that for years meant Oikawa could send a ball flying with the certainty that Hajime would hit it. It was entirely that terrible _catch me when you fall_ dynamic, and it worked because they weren’t romantically involved, didn’t have the sort of needs or pressures that could tank a relationship. Hajime could care for Oikawa like this _because_ they were best friends. At the end of the day that would outlast any of Oikawa’s girlfriends or volleyball losses, like it had survived everything so far.

It made him angry, that Shittykawa would be willing to risk this, the invincible fact of _them_ — _what._ Because he wanted to—kiss Hajime? It was a poor tradeoff. Hajime curled his hands into fists and exhaled. It was like all the fears he felt turning down Nicole, except magnified by infinity because of how they’d grown up together. Oikawa Tooru _was_ Hajime’s heart. Hajime didn’t care for anyone like this, had never been broken over anyone this way. He loved Oikawa—outside of his family, Oikawa was the person he loved best in the world, and he didn’t doubt the feeling was mutual.

This was exactly what made it nearly impossible. They weren’t in the same place and probably wouldn’t be for several years. Oikawa was the best volleyball player Hajime knew; it still amazed him, how Oikawa exceeded expectations and kept going, how Hajime had no doubt he’d be an Olympic player eventually. And when Oikawa went back to Japan and got into the league and the national team, well…any kind of relationship, _let alone with a guy,_ would be a scandal and a half. Not to mention everything Oikawa demanded _now_ would be ratcheted up tenfold, and that burden would no longer be split between Hajime and Oikawa’s eventual partner—it would be all on him. They’d fight and it would hurt more than it did now. And the scary love he felt, the kind that made it hard to breathe sometimes—it was going to get worse. He pressed his hands over his eyes.

It was nearly impossible. But _nearly_ wasn’t _entirely_. His heart rate picked up. _I can’t_ , he thought. _It’s too scary_.

But he knew. Hajime was bad at a lot of things but being honest with himself wasn’t one of them. And now that it was out in the open he couldn’t deny it, couldn’t look away. It was both simple and extremely complicated. There would probably be a point in time, in future, when this wouldn’t be tenable; when it would crash into the terrible conclusion that his mind had shielded him from for literal decades, because to _love_ Oikawa Tooru was always a challenge. For now, though, he’d solved this problem. It had simply opened up an entire cascade of others.

#

But first: turning down Nicole. He said he’d love to get dinner with her anyway. She smiled, her beautiful straight teeth showing, and shrugged. “Okay, but who is it?”

Hajime clammed up. “Er—”

“You’re so gallant you wouldn’t turn me down unless there was someone else on your mind.”

 _Gallant._ Hajime mentally noted the word for later study. Then he deflated, because he might as well get used to admitting it. His insecurities always felt safer with Nicole than it did other people. “It’s Oikawa,” he managed, and wow, he felt hot _everywhere_ , from his face down to his hands. _Fuck_. He meant it.

“Oh my god I knew it! It’s always the cutest guys that are the most dense.” She laughed. “I’m not even hurt by this.”

“Nicole—were you testing me?”

“No,” she said, innocently. “But you obviously were troubled after his visit. And the way he _looked_ at you. I mean I look at you like that sometimes and I _know_ you don’t notice, but it hurt!”

“Guh," Hajime went, intelligently. Why was this reminding him of Kunimi in middle school? Why did everyone claim to _know?_

“Have you told him?” Her eyes were wide. Hajime surrounded himself with the worst people.

“No,” he said. “It’s not…it would be weird over the phone.” It would be weird no matter what, but if he was going to do it he wanted to do it _right_ , which meant a few weeks later, in Miyagi for Christmas break. Assuming…Oikawa still felt that way. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t.

“He’s lucky,” she said. “Promise me you’ll send a selfie together once you’ve confessed. For my records.”

“You read way too much doujinshi.”

She winked. “I write pretty great fanfic, too.”

#

Well. This was going to be harder than Hajime thought. To be clear, he fully understood how he’d made it extra-difficult for himself by playing it cool til now. It was impossible to bring it up. Oikawa was always suggestive with him. Their normal interactions were always pretty sweet, except for when he called Oikawa an asshole, which he wasn’t going to stop because that was deserved. Seeing him back home, though, made Hajime doubtful all over again. There was a slight awkwardness when Hajime had newly arrived and showered and suddenly Oikawa’s family was showing up for tea. They’d hugged—in front of their _moms_ —and they always hugged when they saw each other but it felt different this time? Or Hajime was imagining it. Maybe he’d been imagining the whole thing. Oikawa was acting normal and he went along with it, because honestly this was awesome too, and maybe this was what he wanted after all?

It was _nice_ , being friends. It was great.

It was great until Hajime’s Aunt Yuri showed up at the last minute with her daughter, and his mom decided to give up Hajime’s room to them, of course it was no trouble, Hajime can stay on the couch. Auntie said _oh dear we couldn’t do that to Hajime_ —then mother said _oh, well, he can just stay at Tooru’s place, Tooru has an extra futon._ Thus he found himself, two days shy of Christmas (that hallowed American holiday), frowning at the alien print of Oikawa’s extra pillowcase, annoyed at his heart doing whatever the fuck it was doing.

They’d spent the afternoon helping Oikawa’s mom make dinner, and now there was a waiting period while her fancy chicken baked. Oikawa had come back from the bath and was trying to find his copy of Tekken VS Street Fighter, and Hajime was trying not to think about Oikawa in the shower. God.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said. “You’re spacing out again.” He was making so much noise, rummaging through game and DVD boxes. His hair wasn’t fully dry. Hajime was sitting on the floor next to the bed, clammed up with discomfort.

“I’m not—” At Oikawa’s massive pout, he relented. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry.”

“If you think too hard your brain might explode, remember?”

“Would you like _me_ to explode your brain?”

Oikawa laughed and sat next to him. “You’ve been a little weird this whole trip. Is everything okay? I know you’re the mom in this relationship and you think I don’t notice, but I do.”

Hajime’s body couldn’t decide if it wanted to relax at these words, or tense up. It tried to do both at once. His stomach hurt. Oikawa’s eyes were huge and brown and he’d definitely had it wrong? He was not even remotely in this person’s league? Thing was, Hajime knew he could take being wrong about it. Of course this was going to be difficult. Nothing about Oikawa was ever easy. But if he was going to do this, it had to be now.

“Hey,” he said, shifting a little. “About what you said in the airport. Last time.”

Oikawa’s smile was pleasantly blank. “I said a lot of things?”

Hajime exhaled deeply and looked his best friend in the face. “You like me, don’t you?”

There was a pause that went on so long Hajime felt like he was in some virtual reality that had started glitching. Oikawa blinked, once, twice. Then he opened his mouth and said, “Haha, Iwa-chan, is this a hidden camera joke?”

“Oikawa—”

“Look, if you’re saying this because I told you I’m bi—”

Hajime seized his wrist, before Oikawa could start fleeing. His voice had gone high, pinched with panic, but it was his eyes that made Hajime realize he’s messed up. He had to do this differently. He used his other hand to seize Oikawa’s face and force eye contact. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said, much more calmly than he felt. “Try not to be an asshole about it.”

He went for it. Oikawa always said he had no finesse; maybe there was truth to that. His free hand came up to touch Oikawa’s other cheek as he pressed their lips together, clumsy and insistent. Honestly, this was even worse than that time on the playground. Right. He stopped, pulled back—then burst out laughing, at Oikawa’s stricken expression.

“What are you _doing?_ Oh my god, stop laughing,” Oikawa said, going from white to red _so quickly_ Hajime started laughing all over again.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“That’s—you can’t ambush people—Iwa-chan! What the fuck!”

“You don’t want me to?” He was willing to admit it—he was going about this _wayyyy roundabout_ , because he was terrified too, still unsure they’d get out of this alive. He’d have to pay for a hotel if he couldn’t sleep here tonight; if he crashed in their living room Oikawa’s mom would be way too concerned. He tipped his head, heart stinging, already thinking _well I tried_. It wouldn’t be easy to forget, after all his agony getting to that decision, but Hajime knew he was an idiot sometimes. This wouldn’t work if Oikawa wasn’t going to meet him halfway. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t want to,” Hajime continued, keeping his voice steady, praying Oikawa would get it.

Oikawa’s eyes went glossy with tears. He sucked in a breath like he was drowning. “You think I’m just gonna accept that you like me all of a sudden? If you knew how I felt why didn’t you say so?”

“It took me a while,” Hajime answered, trying not to get defensive. “You were being pretty fucking opaque. And I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Tell me what?” Oikawa had on _this_ expression, proud and terrified at once, and Hajime _knew_. He knew.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. Oikawa pressed both hands to his face, let out a low moan. They were backed into this corner; there was absolutely nowhere else to go. “And I want to kiss you again, and better this time, if you’ll let me.”

“ _You’re the one who’s an asshole about it,_ ” Oikawa whimpered, while Hajime carefully peeled his hands away, brushing his tears with his thumbs. Then Oikawa was nodding, teeth gritted, like they were about to do something terrifying and necessary, which in fact they were.

Hajime cupped the back of Oikawa’s neck, threaded his fingers into the still-damp hair there, angled his face, tried to stop thinking so hard, and kissed him. Oikawa’s mouth was soft. He tasted like the castella cake Hajime’s mom had given as an apology for Hajime’s intrusion; he made a little indecipherable sound that nearly broke Hajime. Oikawa’s hands were shaking as they pressed into Hajime’s lower back, pushing him closer. He crawled them up until they were looped around Hajime’s neck. Hajime didn’t want to pull away but he needed to breathe, and also see Oikawa’s expression. That was a bad idea. There were traces of tears on his lashes and his eyes were bright and his mouth was pink and he was fucking _gorgeous_. Hajime’s imagination was getting ahead of itself despite the fact that Oikawa’s faded old Team Japan poster was still looming over them from the same place they’d spent countless afternoons as kids, and, _god_ , there was nothing more embarrassing than making out with your childhood best friend, but it was all he wanted to do.

“This isn’t fair,” Oikawa whined. “You’re not supposed to be such a good kisser.”

Hajime laughed and wrapped him in an embrace, allowed himself the competitive surge of _you haven’t seen anything yet_ , because everything was a contest between them and that was part of what made it _fun._ It seemed like an eternity and also no time at all until auntie called them down for dinner, and it was almost welcome because this was nearly too much, leaning over Oikawa on his bed, kissing every inch of his face: the corner of his lips, his cupid’s bow, the pliant skin beneath his eyes, and how hot it was when Oikawa arched up to lick into his mouth. It was almost a relief to pull his hands away from where they were roving over Oikawa’s chest, rucking up his shirt obscenely. Fuck, he wanted to touch his skin everywhere.

“How long is your aunt staying?” Oikawa asked, unusually shy and suppressing a laugh, as he flattened down Hajime’s mussed-up hair.

“Two days after Christmas.” He wound his fingers into Oikawa’s hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the skin over his knuckles. They held hands all the way down the stairs, only letting go before they stepped into the kitchen.

#

They held hands again under the table the next day at the tonkatsu shop and Makki caught them because _of course he did_ , but it was their fault anyway for being unsubtle. There was a lot of laughter and _holy shit_ and recounting how long it took (“You’re both so stupid,” Makki cried, while Mattsun rubbed his shoulders). Hajime got annoyed hearing how it started with Oikawa on someone else’s lap but. He couldn’t be too mad about it, because on their way back home Oikawa, not looking at him, tugged on his jacket so they could stop by the convenience store.

It was as mortifying as one could expect, buying what they needed to buy, but it was worth it to crowd onto Oikawa’s room after, pull off his sweater and then his t-shirt, to hook thumbs over the belt loops of his jeans and push them down his hips, past his knees, to touch his shoulders and arms and kiss his throat, to hear him huff “Come _on_ ,” while Hajime lipped his way along the smooth, tanned skin of Oikawa’s thigh, to bite back a laugh at how awkward this was, how amazingly, perfectly, imperfect.

**vi.**

On the night before what was maybe the biggest game of Oikawa Tooru’s life—in a life that had thus far been filled with pretty big games—Tooru found he couldn’t sleep. He’d spent his entire career as an athlete managing nerves. He was an Olympic player at the peak of his fitness. He’d been injury-free for the past season, and his diet had been calibrated down to every last calorie. Granted, the team had indulged a little the weekend they arrived, Tooru taking them to a sukiyaki place (Kuroo’s suggestion) and then konbini ice cream afterwards—but otherwise he knew exactly what his body needed. Also, he was _happy_. He got to show his team his home country, and he was absolutely going to crush it the next day. It was just his heart that wasn’t cooperating.

He’d arrived knowing it might be difficult to see Iwa-chan. Even so, he’d been unprepared for the _rabid screaming_ in his head every time Iwa-chan swung into his field of vision wearing _that shirt_ with _those arms_ and _that smile._ Or how it made him want to break things when, from across the court, he saw Iwa-chan holding Kageyama’s hands. He was probably holding them in some medical capacity, but that did not reassure Oikawa’s heart in the least. Worst of all was the pretending—when Hinata waved him over, or when Santino, Oikawa’s wing spiker from CA San Juan, shouted in Spanish: “Hey, isn’t that Iwa-chan?”

They were still friends. They never lost contact. They still talked sometimes. Tooru knew things weren’t okay but he could feel they were both _trying_. It was excruciating; he was dealing with it anyway, holding it apart from himself, trying not to let it affect how awesome this whole experience was.

It didn’t help that literally everyone was _getting some_ the whole of this trip. That was a teensy part of it, but it still pissed him off. The bigger part was that he was apparently not over Iwaizumi Hajime; he’d thought maybe he was, that it had been long enough, but the minute he saw Iwa-chan he knew he’d been lying to himself. Poorly. He was as fucked as ever, and it hurt like the breakup was yesterday and not two years of this, broken glass on the inside and taped-up pieces on the surface. But Oikawa was a professional and he’d compartmentalized this for _years_ now, so he was pretty damn convincing when he smiled at Santino and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Won’t you say hi to your boyfriend?”

“We’re not dating anymore,” Oikawa said, swallowing. “We haven’t been for a while.”

“Oh! But you still talk all the time?”

“It’s complicated.”

Santino had looked sad and ashamed, more than a bit confused, but he schooled is expression into a grin when Iwa-chan came over to say “Hey, Shittykawa,” like everything was normal. They stood and chatted for a bit until Ushijima appeared to pull his athletic trainer away. Tooru still couldn’t decide if he was grateful or spiteful.

He sighed, rubbed his hands over his face, then rolled out of bed and pulled on some socks. Maybe a short run would tire him out.

He’d said it was complicated but it wasn’t, actually. They’d had four years—despite the distance—but in the end they couldn’t figure it out. He’d been too selfish, and there’d been too much for Iwa-chan to lose. He’d thought it made sense when it ended, but his heart had never agreed.

#

It had been his fault.

He’d left the conversation about staying in Argentina too long. It had been fine, because Iwa-chan had stayed in the US beyond his program, too—there was that one-year OPT as a researcher at Dr. Utsui’s lab, then the two years taking a master’s degree, and then a six-month internship with that college team in LA. It wasn’t easy, the distance; Tooru missed Iwa-chan’s graduation and Hajime had to chose between visiting Tooru and visiting his parents, between all his programs and jobs. But they’d made it work, somehow, and every moment together had been so _blissful_ , all the more for its rarity. How they held hands freely, and behind closed doors kissed constantly; how they’d spend days lounging together in bed, idly pressing kisses to each other’s skin, while they read or caught up on work or talked about nothing and everything. It hadn’t felt like building a life together, but it had felt like an inevitability, the comfort of being each other’s person so fully.

Happiness on cloudy days and days streaked with sunlight, in three different countries on three different continents. The electricity of being pinned against the bathroom tiles or the wall of a modest hotel, how those moments stretched to forever and were still never long enough; or those days when he ached and Iwa-chan would massage all the tension out of him, sounding like such a professional when he said “Here?” to a mysterious knot in Tooru’s body.

“How do you always know where it hurts?” he’d muttered, hissing when Iwa-chan found a sore spot and dug into it.

“It’s my job,” Iwa-chan answered, gentle despite the way he was torturing all of Tooru’s haywire muscles.

Happiness when they were together, and missing him when they were apart—but the careers deserved focus, too. It was that telepathy, the years of understanding each other so well, that lulled him into never saying it. He’d forgotten that Iwa-chan didn’t _actually_ know what he was thinking, always; couldn’t have guessed about his plans, how the stay in Argentina had shifted from temporary training to something more permanent.

So he didn’t know how to react when Iwa-chan told him, on his last visit to Argentina, “I’m moving back to Japan.”

Tooru felt his heart capsize. It was good he was sitting down. He swallowed, and was surprised to hear himself say, calmly: “You—ah. When?”

It was late June; they’d timed this visit to land between their birthdays. Iwa-chan sat at his table, wine untouched. “August,” he said. “Sensei found me a job with a men’s athletic team in Tokyo. I decided not to take my second OPT anymore. It’s a good gig, and it’s not home, but if anything happens I’m just a train ride away.” He meant, of course, the health scare Auntie Iwaizumi had the previous year; she’d recovered and was doing well, but it had shaken them badly, being so far away and not knowing what could happen. Tooru understood the enormity of what they’d traded away, the moments they missed, how his own mother’s face had surprised him the last time he’d been home, a touch of age around her beautiful eyes.

They’d been apart most of this time. So why did this feel different?

Why was Iwa-chan _looking_ at him with that question in his eyes?

“Oh. That’s a bit soon.”

“Yeah.”

Tooru took a sip of wine to steady himself. “Which team?”

“The Red Falcons.” Iwa-chan was trying very hard to catch his eye. “Oikawa. You’re not planning to leave Argentina, are you?” He didn’t mean the league, either.

It took him a moment to answer, but there was no pretending he wasn’t going to say what he said next: “No.”

Iwa-chan waited.

“I’m giving up my citizenship. I want to play for Argentina in the Olympics.”

It was Iwa-chan’s turn to need a moment. When he did, it was with a small, brave smile. “I thought maybe you would. That’s amazing.” He’d followed the games, knew his boyfriend’s records; knew what Oikawa had done, where he was headed. _And he was still deciding to leave him._ A younger Oikawa would have held that betrayal like poison glittering in cupped hands; Oikawa _now_ , just shy of twenty-five, regretfully had the spatial awareness necessary to being a top-notched setter that meant he was already trying to understand, even if his heart was breaking.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were thinking? Why—why didn’t you ask me to come with you?” 

“Because I knew you’d say no.”

Tooru opened his mouth to say _that’s not true_ —but it was, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to move back to Japan. There wasn’t a world in which he’d do that, not even…not even for this, hands trembling on his lap, the hurt inside him spreading everywhere, but he couldn’t say anything. Not even _what if_ I _asked you?_ To be together, seriously this time; to stay with him.

But there was Iwa-chan’s mother and the degrees he’d finished and _home_ , with everything in it. When they left they’d intended to come back; it was Tooru who’d changed his mind. Weighing it like that—even if Iwa-chan learned Spanish, found an AT job in San Juan, and didn’t mind Tooru’s bonkers schedule or missing Hatsumode nearly every year—it didn’t seem like a fair tradeoff, only to have Tooru at the end of the day. He’d simply never looked at the incompatibility of their lives, because they were perfect for each other.

The worst thing was: he’d definitely assumed Iwa-chan would make that sacrifice. He didn’t think he needed to ask. He was a selfish asshole. Iwa-chan was the best person in the world; he deserved better than this.

“Are we breaking up?” he said, shakily. _If I don’t deny what you’ve said, does it mean we’re over?_

“Oikawa…”

“It’s okay, Iwa-chan,” he heard himself saying. It wasn’t. But nothing could salvage this; not when they’d made up their minds already.

“I don’t feel any differently.” Iwa-chan wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was trying to be best friends with the table. Tooru thought, dimly, _then why can’t we make this work?_ “But I think…maybe this will be for the best. You’ve got…you need to focus on what you’re doing here, and…for now, I need to go back home.”

A younger Tooru would have screamed and sobbed like a baby at this. This older Tooru nodded, wordless, didn’t even flinch when Iwa-chan embraced him, didn’t register whether Iwa-chan was crying himself. He could not believe Iwa-chan was actually doing this to him _._ He wanted to be angry; anger was better than this understanding, the terrible conclusion that maybe there was no way this would’ve worked, even from the start.

They didn’t kiss at all that night. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, like they’d never known each other that way. Talking it over the next day, they decided it would be best to stay friends. That way, they could remain in each other’s lives. It hurt, but not more than losing each other entirely.

#

Tooru cried. A lot. For days after, then intermittently, for weeks. He cried so much he felt dehydrated. His teammates thought he was sick, which he most definitely was, even if _heartsickness_ wasn’t something his physician could write on a medical slip. The shock and hurt would recede then be overtaken by rage, at what felt like betrayal; then, infuriatingly, acknowledgement. He kept coming back to _Iwa-chan knows better_ and _this will be for the best._ It 100% did not feel that way. It felt like agony, curled up on his bed sobbing into his pillow for hours on end, wanting that warm touch on his shoulder, that old familiar voice saying his name: sweetly, sleepily, breathlessly.

Some days the searing pain dissolved into nothing. That was better in some ways, and in some ways worse. The impulse to abandon this life swelled then subsided; there was still the game in front of him, one match and the next. It was essential to being a good setter that he could quickly get his emotions under control. On the court, it was all delay and concentration: putting the sadness aside to wallow in for later. Because _this_ was what he’d given it up for, right? The satisfying smack of the ball against his palm, they ease with which he lifted it into the air. That symphony of orchestrating his players, the one thing that could ever help him forget.

He was going to make it _worth it,_ goddamit _._ Nothing less would even it out.

Going back to being friends was both awful and simple. There’d been a weird period, Tooru overthinking every heart emoji he sent, that _te amo_ at the end of phone calls that started off as a cheesy joke and was now, well, pretty fucking painful. There were the questions from people who’d known them, that he dodged or batted away, certain Iwa-chan was doing the same. There was the shift in time difference, again, the ramp-up in training on his end and the adjustment to a new job on Iwa-chan’s end, making it difficult to have any kind of regularity with phone calls. It never stopped being weird, but they’d always known how to be friends; Tooru couldn’t imagine avoiding Iwa-chan any more than he could fathom the fact that they were no longer together.

Except they were no longer together.

Focusing everything back on volleyball helped. In the end, it turned out to be the one thing Tooru could rely on. The weeks rolled into months; the loneliness scabbed over, not precluding those moments when it reopened like a split knee, fresh and terrible; Tooru’s Spanish became good enough that he could now handle media interviews on his own; and when Iwa-chan told him about the appointment to the Japan’s men’s volleyball team, he wasn’t surprised, was happy and proud and only a little jealous. He’d avoided going home those two years, for all kinds of legitimate reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with being unable to face Iwa-chan. And he’d survived it, even those days when he thought he wouldn’t.

Arriving in Tokyo, Tooru thought: _maybe I’m in the clear._ He’d been so wrong. 

#

Tooru made it all the way to the waterfront. The air was cool for late summer, shy with the taste of salt. He found some recycled bench to rest on with a view of the water, though there wasn’t much to see besides the dim lights on the opposite shore, strung out like fireflies on the gentle navy canvas. Now that he was here, alone, he could admit: _he missed this place._ That scent in the air and the 100 yen milk bread, the fan chants, even the Japanese that his teammates had a blast practicing. He could see why Iwa-chan had come back.

It surprised him how empty this area was—he’d thought maybe lots of athletes would be running around, working off steam—but they were probably working off steam in _other ways_ —okay, he really needed to stop thinking about that.

Except why the _fuck_ did Atsumu Miya need to be so hot? He wasn’t so worried about Ushiwaka—if he’d wanted to make a pass on Iwa-chan he would have done it ages ago. Tooru knew they were friendly because of the two years of research Iwa-chan did under Ushiwaka’s dad, a fact that he always slightly resented. Even Tobio-kun looked good these days, and it was making Oikawa rehash his old theory that Tobio-kun had always had a crush on Iwa-chan, just like Kyotani did. And Tooru _knew_ Iwa-chan had a thing for pretty faces.

Well. That wasn’t his problem anymore. He was going to be fine! He’d given everything up—even the one thing he’d maybe thought he wouldn’t—to be standing on this stage, doing exactly what he was doing. And he was satisfied. Mostly, genuinely. He’d borne it, Iwa-chan’s smile as they hugged, the way he said, _You look great._ He didn’t want Iwa-chan to worry, and he wasn’t going to give himself away.

He heard steps on the path behind him and scrunched up tighter on the bench. The runner slowed to a halt and leaned over the banister—he hadn’t even noticed Tooru. Good. He didn’t feel like talking, in any language.

Until he saw the jacket, anyway. He went “HAH?!” and the runner whipped around.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Unbelievable.” Iwa-chan shook his head.

“Wh-wh- _why are you wearing that jacket?_ ”

“I wear it to go to sleep sometimes,” Iwa-chan said, defensive. “It’s light and comfortable.”

“Right, _right_ ,” Tooru said. They kept staring at each other. Tooru felt the need to come up with something brilliant, but all he managed was, “Haha, Iwa-chan, don’t you think meeting like this proves fate is on our side?”

Iwa-chan squinted at him and strode over. Tooru fought a massively growing urge to flee. “You should be asleep,” Iwa-chan said. “Does your coach know you’re out here at 2 AM?”

“Well what about _your team_ ,” Tooru grumbled. “I bet you haven’t had enough sleep and they have no idea their AT is wandering around at night getting a cardio break.” _Or looking for something,_ he didn’t add, not daring to hope. It was one of those stupid Iwa-chan things, always being able to find Tooru. And he was tired and sleepy but could also feel the hurt clawing out of him, that he’d tried so hard to suppress the last two years.

Iwa-chan snorted. “You say that like they’re not all your friends, too.”

“Excuse you. I would never be friends with Tobio-kun.”

“Still as nasty as ever.”

“It’s because! Everyone is flirting with you!” Tooru wished he didn’t mean this as wholeheartedly as he did.

Iwa-chan laughed and plopped down on the bench next to him. “Literally no one is.”

 _I can’t believe you’re taking care of Tobio and Ushiwaka and not me,_ Tooru did not say, because at twenty-seven he was supposed to be gracious and mature. “You’re so dense, Iwa-chan.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told me that.”

“Well, I can say whatever the fuck I want to say to you, after what you did.”

Iwa-chan paused. “Right. I know.”

Shit. Of course he was gonna blame himself. That wasn't right—it had been Tooru’s fault too. Anyway it didn’t matter, right? Iwa-chan didn’t love him anymore, and this wasn’t going to go anywhere, and the sooner Tooru left Japan the better for both of them.

He was abruptly exhausted. Setter of the fourth best league in the world and he couldn’t even handle an ex—what a joke. “I’m not mad,” Tooru said. “I’m just tired. And um. Not used to this anymore.” _It’s killing me that I’m not._

“Uh-huh,” Iwa-chan said. “I get that.” He cracked his knuckles. “How’s your leg doing?”

It was easy to be flip about volleyball, at least. Tooru tilted his head, coyly. “Oh, do you watch my games?” He’d landed weird coming off a block in the earlier match against Italy, had to be benched for the second half. It wasn’t anything bad, and his medical team had gone slightly overboard treating it anyway, but he couldn’t help but feel a little gratified at this attention.

“Of course I do. We all do. There’s a lot to learn from them, and you know that the shrimp and Kageyama are your biggest fans.”

Tooru blushed. If he wanted to get any sleep tonight this needed to stop. This close to Iwa-chan, Tooru couldn’t help but catalogue everything obsessively again—the green of his eyes, how his ridiculous arms really shouldn’t fit into that jacket anymore, the way his tiny smile set forest fires through Tooru’s chest. _Nope_. He’d given this up. He had no right to say anything either.

“My leg’s fine,” Tooru said. “But if I say it’s not, will you inspect it?”

“Don’t mess with me.”

“Aww, I bet you want to, though!” Privately, Tooru flicked away all the memories of massages that slid into kissing, what came after.

Iwa-chan appeared to have no such struggle. “You must be such a handful for your trainers.”

“Guess I’m a handful for everyone.”

Iwa-chan made a vaguely affirmative noise. They gazed out at the harbor in silence. The pain that had been plaguing Tooru all week intensified, burning through his chest; he almost wanted to clutch at it, but that would have been too dramatic, even for him.

“You really _should_ go back now,” Iwa-chan said. “Do you…um, do you want to walk back together?”

Tooru stared.

“Uh, well. I can also leave.” Iwa-chan shuffled his feet; Tooru’s heart did no such thing as skip a beat. Iwa-chan coughed and stood. “See you.”

Tooru blurted, “No! Wait, okay. I’ll walk back with you if you tell me all your team’s secrets.”

Iwa-chan laughed. God, Tooru loved that sound. It broke up the tension in the air, a little, made it easy for Tooru to fall into step beside him as they started back, to ask him what he’d wanted to this whole time: _well, what’s it been like?_ He loved the way Iwa-chan talked, recounting the Japan team’s journey as they walked back to the dormitories. It was amazing, how well Iwa-chan knew all of his players. What they’d been up to, the Bokuto tip sheet he’d filched off Akaashi, the V.league rivalries that came up every mealtime, how Yaku was teaching him a bit of Russian. “They’re a handful,” he said. “Good thing I’m used to it.”

In return, Tooru told him about the Argentinian team, the egg problems at the sukiyaki place and Thiago killing it at karaoke the other night, how Santino still carried that temple charm Iwa-chan had gifted him one time. As they got closer to the apartments they quieted, until finally they were walking in silence.

It was easy. More than easy. It reminded Tooru of that evening, the last game they’d ever played together, walking home in the dark, to hear the promise in those words: _you’re the absolute best setter. But when we face each other, I’m going to beat you._

They stood in the haze of the eco-friendly lamplight; it felt like a flickering moment, easily stubbed between one’s fingers.

“Well, the medical staff’s rooms are that way.” Iwa-chan jerked his head. “See you.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Iwa-chan took a step, then turned back. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Hah! You’re the one who’ll need it!”

That smile—the one that said _I’m sorry,_ that was so full of _knowing_. He _was_ going to leave. Tooru watched him turn away again and thought of every time he’d let this happen, despite knowing what he knew.

Instinctively, his hand reached out and grasped Iwa-chan’s jacket, so that the letters of their high school bunched up in the center. Iwa-chan turned his head, sharply. Tooru let go.

“Reflex!” he squeaked. “See you!”

He sprinted for the stairs.

#

He chose volleyball. Iwa-chan chose home. It was that simple. And yet.

#

He should have known Iwa-chan would catch up to him. Tooru was an Olympian athlete, but Iwa-chan was an Olympic athletic _trainer_. It was his literal business to know sportsmen and their habits, and how to exploit them. Tooru got as far as the second floor landing, ignoring the part of his brain that screeched _don’t fucking sprint on the stairs like this!_

“Don’t fucking sprint on the stairs, dumbass, do you want an injury?” Iwa-chan caught his wrist and wrestled him against the wall. Tooru liked that grip on his skin, hated what it reminded him of; his whole body went hot.

“Let go of me!” Tooru said, like a brat. He wanted to be a brat. There was no part of him that _wanted_ to be mature about this, a nasty instinct that always came up when he was near Iwa-chan. No wonder he’d been dumped.

“Why are you running?” Iwa-chan was doing an admirable job of keeping his voice down, but he was _pissed_.

Tooru snapped. “Why do you think, asshole? I’m still fucking in love with you!”

Silence. There weren’t even cicadas to punctuate, because they were on a fucking artificial island. The only sound was their ragged breathing. Someone somewhere on the floor above them let out a sound that proved _they_ , at least, were having a great time. Fuck.

Iwa-chan hadn’t let go of his wrist, but his grip loosened. His eyes widened. He didn’t say anything.

“Let go of me,” Tooru repeated, the fight gone out of him, the bottled-up hurt running through him now, every drop of blood in his veins burning with it. “Iwa-chan.” _You’re always doing that anyway._

Tooru knew what he chose—what they’d chosen. He knew why. The fact that they were both here proved they’d been right. He bit his lip and stared at the floor to stop himself from crying.

“You don’t,” Iwa-chan finally said, each word heavy as a stone. “Oikawa, you can’t.” _We can’t. We couldn’t find a way forward. We failed each other._

Tooru knew all the reasons why. He didn’t want to look—if he saw the same longing in Iwa-chan’s eyes he’d crumble; but if he _didn’t_ see the same, it would be worse. _We gave it up for this. We should be happy we got this._

“Well, you know me better than I know myself,” Tooru admitted. He was at the _Olympic Village_ and he was the first string setter for Argentina, a country he’d grown to love and belong to, and volleyball was _everything_ to him. He knew that and Iwa-chan knew that…but there was another truth too, one he’d never been able to reckon with, something that shamed him so deeply he couldn’t put words to it in any moment that mattered less than this one. “And I know you wanted this for me. I wanted this for myself! And I’m _happy_ , Iwa-chan, god, I can’t wait to play tomorrow and _beat your team_ —” Iwa-chan snorted, in spite of everything— “But there’s a part of me, there’s always been a part of me, that wishes I didn’t trade you for this.”

There. He’d said it. Everyone was happy for him and he was living his dream, and the _pride_ in Iwa-chan’s eyes when they saw each other in Ariake the first day had been like flying, and still. _Still_. He’d wanted to kiss him then, in front of all his teammates and high school rivals, to invade his space and his mouth and make up for all their lost time. He’d felt a tug every time he passed a basket of free condoms and thought abut how much he’d wanted to be touched, the last two years, how he’d _tried_ a handful of times and never gotten anywhere because someone’s hands and heat had ruined him for everyone else forever. He’d wanted to charge across the court when he saw Atsumu Miya beckon Iwa-chan over from where he was doing stretches on the floor with Kiyoomi Sakusa, gesturing at his leg until Iwa-chan _touched his thigh_ , to bat them away forever and say _not my boyfriend, you hoes!_ All the old familiar jealousy. The stunning clarity of what he’d held in his hands once, what he was holding in his hands now, one fist balling up in this man’s shirt and how insane he felt, _not knowing if it was worth it._ The story of Tooru’s life couldn’t be built on regret but there was this— _there was this._

“Don’t,” Iwa-chan said. Crushed, crushingly. “I’m not worth it.”

He _was_ , though. It was so awful. The tears came, like he knew they would.

Iwa-chan touched his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.” He said it with all the authority of someone who understood Oikawa’s self-destructive tendencies and also constantly had to yell at people regarding physical maintenance, and Tooru couldn’t not follow. He looked. Iwa-chan’s eyes were green like the sea close to the shore and the perpetual sunlight of California, the grass that prickled their hands and feet over summers spent scrounging for beetles, the grass they lay on in a park in San Juan, that one time Iwa-chan finally took a break from work to visit Oikawa and they’d spent hours kissing, until just kissing wasn’t enough. “That part of you’s a fucking idiot. Look at where you are. You’re a monster, Oikawa, and you’re still the best setter I know. It’ll be my utter privilege to try and beat you tomorrow.” His eyes, softening, because he was _sure_ , he always got there faster. “Calm the fuck down and go to sleep. If you—if you mean that, we can figure it out later.”

It sounded too much like a promise, the promises they never made because Oikawa was always selfish and Hajime was always too giving, right down to when they’d first done something about this— _if you’ll let me._ He wanted to be that generous, but it was so hard.

And there _was_ later—there were all of the games to get through, first, the dizzying rush of squaring off against Japan tomorrow for the first time, but also all the other games, because Oikawa was going to claw onto the podium if his life depended on it. There was later—there would be life after this moment even if it didn’t feel that way, and there were years left to go, figuring this out, to see if maybe they still had a chance—but Tooru had been holding back the whole week and his self-preservation was at its limit. “Okay,” he said, in a small, shaky, voice. “But I want to kiss you _now_.”

So he did.

Iwa-chan was too surprised to duck or dodge him—the kiss landed square on his mouth. He went completely still, Miyagi-playground-cardboard again. All of their first kisses were bad. Maybe Iwa-chan was going to say _no_ to this. But the moment passed and Iwa-chan let his wrist go and pushed Tooru flat against the wall and kissed him so hard he shuddered. He’d only wanted the kiss but now he was _starving_ for everything else, and it was nearly 3 AM probably and he was going to be so fucked tomorrow, this was _irresponsible_ , but—he also wanted to be fucked right now, he’d missed this so much, Iwa-chan’s teeth on his bottom lip and the press of his hands on Tooru’s hips, the span of his back as Tooru pulled him in closer, closer, they were never going to be close enough. Iwa-chan moved his head, angling away, and Tooru chased after him, met his lips and refused to let him talk, like that would break the spell, how perfect this was. Somehow the kiss broke anyway and Tooru was too far gone to hold back a faint, wizened, “ _No, don’t stop._ ”

Iwa-chan sucked in a breath between his teeth. “ _Fuck_ , Oikawa, you’ve got a game tomorrow and so do I.”

Oikawa pulled him in for another kiss. He was losing count. It was getting hard to breathe but it didn’t matter. Iwa-chan caved for another few—seconds? Minutes? Whatever it was, _not long enough_ —then slid his hands from Tooru’s hips to his waist, making him shudder, and pushed himself away. He was gorgeous and flushed, unable to suppress his smile, as he leaned in again and whispered, a dangerous rumble against Tooru’s ear, “Hey, I’m not going to get blamed if you’re condition’s not good tomorrow. And I need to make sure all my players are sleeping.”

“You’re really gonna leave me like this?” Tooru whined. He might have panted a little. His lungs weren’t cooperating. He knew he ought to go, this was _already_ so bad, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. Or this _hot_. Stupid Iwa-chan. It wasn’t like he was gonna head right back to sleep either—Tooru felt him hard through his jogging pants, was trying not to get too excited at the prospect of _everything_ , which included another shot at their lives together _and_ maybe getting railed hard enough that he stopped overthinking his whole life for one hot minute. _He still feels the same way_ , Tooru thought, shocked with joy.

“I’m really gonna leave you like this,” Iwa-chan murmured breathlessly, kissing the skin under Tooru’s ear. “I’m not going to touch you until all your games are done. Or maybe I won’t at all, if you don’t get any medals.”

“Are you placing a _bet_ on me winning?” Tooru was so happy he thought he might explode. One of the reasons he loved Iwa-chan so much was because they had so much _fun_ together—and this was a dangerous gamble to make. “You’re gonna betray your team like that? Didn’t you _see_ the game against Brazil?”

“Don’t say that til you’ve seen what Shouyo and Kageyama can do together now,” Iwa-chan answered, readily. “Again. Calm down. Get some fucking sleep, Shittykawa. We’ll talk after your games.”

“After my games,” Tooru repeated, heart chasing everything, _they were going to figure it out, somehow_. Despite being idiots. Shit. All his matches ending was so far away. Iwa-chan laughed and pushed him towards the stairs; as Tooru took a step, dazed, Iwa-chan snagged his wrist and pulled him back for another kiss, and another.

Tooru could only hope that Iwa-chan smiled all the way back to bed that night. Just like he did.

#

As much of a mess Tooru was about his love life, the next few days were all pinpoint focus, the sweatsoaked rush of doing exactly what he was meant to do: connect, keep the ball alive, connect, hit it til it breaks. Connect. At the end of the devastating run with Japan—he couldn’t claim it as his home court but it _was_ , on some level, and it had nothing to do with all the sponsors or kids lined up to greet him— _look what you can do, what you can accomplish, even if you’re not a genius_. Those kids were him. He’d been in their shoes before; now he got to show them how it was done.

He didn’t know what was sweeter, the beautiful press of his team around him when they won; Tobio’s smile—fierce and awestruck and it _had_ always been admiration in his eyes, how Tooru got to say “but I’m so _jealous_ of you” to watch Tobio’s mouth drop open in shock, because now he could admit it and it didn’t hurt; Ushijima beaming at him next to Miya Atsumu looking completely _wrecked_ ; or standing on the podium, silver medal in hand, feeling the love and pride pouring down from the crowd. Tooru couldn’t pretend he saw exactly who he was looking for, but he _felt_ him the whole time, and that was what mattered.

#

This mattered too: at the end of that day, after dinner with his team and all the photo ops, after missed calls and the very real fear that maybe Iwa-chan wouldn’t want to meet up after all, so that he could hardly eat—Tooru found himself trying to construct some way forward. An apology; a compromise of some kind.

It was past midnight when he got the text he’d been waiting for. Daniel covered for him because Daniel was a sweetheart and everyone should have an opposite hitter that lovely. He stood outside that door in the medical staff wing, heart thunderous with uncertainty. The door cracked open and he slipped inside, anxiety and excitement warring within him, but as soon as the door closed their bodies went on autopilot: kissing, shuffling to the bed, fumbling for each other’s limbs. It was a miracle: finally, finally getting to creep into Iwa-chan’s lap, press the tips of his calloused fingers to the skin over Iwa-chan’s heart, to trace lightly over his jaw and cup his cheeks, to look him square into the eye and say, trying to keep his giddiness at bay, “So.”

Iwa-chan raised an eyebrow. A few days ago Tooru had texted him a link to the anonymous Twitter account called @iwasensei, a spinoff from the multifandom @JPNmensvball that somehow had as many followers, and Iwa-chan had sent back _??_ He was dense and handsome and still wearing too many clothes for Tooru’s comfort. Compromises could wait.

“So I beat your team,” Tooru said. He smiled. He tried to make the smile as dirty as possible. It might’ve worked. Iwa-chan looked ready to kill him; when Iwa-chan looked that way he was incredibly hot.

“You did,” Iwa-chan said, looking annoyed and proud at once. They were such a mess. Iwa-chan clasped the hand that Tooru was pressing onto his left cheek and turned his head so that he was kissing Tooru’s palm. “I’m pissed as hell, but you’re amazing.”

“And I _waited_ ,” Tooru said, and he meant the last few days, but also the last two years, going to sleep dreaming about Iwa-chan next to him and waking up alone. He was used to it from the long distance but it had remained a red raw wound, every morning, to remember that it was _over_. But he wasn’t going to think about that now (even if it could still end up that way). He was going to think about what was right in front of him (even if it turned out to be only for tonight). “I think I’ve been pretty good, all things considered.”

“You want a prize or something?” Iwa-chan had a playful look on his face, a grin that made Tooru tingle as they shifted and Iwa-chan pushed him back onto the mattress with both hands. It was quieter here than in the player’s wing, though he was acutely aware that the rest of Iwa-chan’s team wasn’t too far away. They’d probably been celebrating their own win too, ahead of tomorrow’s closing ceremony.

Shit. The closing ceremony. Tooru was leaving in six days. He tried not to think about it as his head hit the pillow and Iwa-chan loomed above him, braced on his elbows; Tooru wished he’d flicked on a light, this was going to be too intense in the half-dark, it already was.

“Don’t I deserve one?”

“You deserve everything, Tooru.” Iwa-chan didn’t use the name often, had used it sparingly even when they were dating, and it had that effect now—Tooru didn’t want to cry, he wanted to _have sex_ , but maybe he was going to do both anyway. Iwa-chan’s voice was warm. Tooru could see the gentleness in his eyes and the way he accepted everything, how difficult this was going to be, because six days wasn’t long at all, and they couldn’t spend all of it together. Fuck. This already felt like goodbye. Because it was easier to make light of it than to do anything else, Iwa-chan said, “What, not satisfied with silver?”—which, _of course he wasn’t._

“I’m not satisfied because you’re taking _so long to fuck me,_ ” Tooru whispered, frowning up at him. Iwa-chan shook his head and leaned in and kissed him like he meant it.

His hands got busy too, and Tooru didn’t know scientifically how it worked that they kept kissing while tugging off each other’s clothes, but there was a moment when it was skin on skin, trembling familiarity and a desperate ache all over him as Iwa-chan whispered, brokenly, “I didn’t think we’d ever get to—” and yes, he’d thought the same, had boarded the idea up in shutters for so long, gathering dust, so that the vivid reality of it was beyond wonderful, and what he’d endured so awful—he didn’t let Iwa-chan say it, just arched into him again and answered “I know, _I know_ ,”—which finally, finally managed to get through Iwa-chan’s disgusting reserves of self-control. At least he didn’t need to be told twice.

It felt new, different, to be taken apart like this. Iwa-chan fucked like someone who knew the human body intricately and Tooru’s body _perfectly_ , which made sense because he had two professional degrees in this, but still. Tooru traced his hands down Iwa-chan’s chest, thought _this is mine, Japan National Team!_ with the barest hint of pettiness, and wrapped one hand over Iwa-chan’s cock, smiling as he stroked it, relishing the stiff, heavy heat in his hand. Iwa-chan moaned, shuddering, but he pulled Tooru’s hand away and grunted “Later, I want to—” and yes, yes, Tooru wanted it too, _right now_. He let Iwa-chan arrange them, tried not to tremble too much as Iwa-chan poured the lube he’d pilfered from somewhere onto his hand. Tooru held it together when Iwa-chan pushed in his first finger, but the second finger got him to give a wet gasp, to press down with the heel that was hooked over Iwa-chan’s right shoulder. “Cut it out,” Iwa-chan huffed. “With that sound.”

“What sound?” Tooru asked, only semi-coherent; when Iwa-chan stroked inside again he definitely made _some_ sound, but not, like. Consciously.

“Shit, you’re so fucking hot,” Iwa-chan groaned.

Tooru had something to say about that but all he could manage was _“Ahh”_ as Iwa-chan pushed a third finger in. He curled up, desperate, might have panted _please_ , but Iwa-chan was shutting him up with these endless kisses, trying to distract him as he rubbed Tooru open. It worked, barely, but his desperation must have been catching because Iwa-chan sucked at his throat--Tooru distantly thought about the photo shoot scheduled day after tomorrow and decided he didn’t care. Iwa-chan said “Hang on,” and then he was shifting Tooru’s legs apart further and settling in, lining himself up. Tooru held back from grinding into it because he wanted to _feel it_ , Iwa-chan’s care and certainty and how it had been this all along, how unthinkable it was that he’d given this away. When Iwa-chan pushed inside he stayed tensed up for a moment, arms trembling on either side of Tooru, eyes shut.

Tooru hadn’t planned on saying it but it came out anyway: “I love you,” he whispered, into the fragility of the moment.

Iwa-chan exhaled. Everything was too much and still not enough, and Tooru moved his hips, canted them upwards so that Iwa-chan found the right angle, slid all the way in, until there wasn’t any distance between them anymore. It was strange, Tooru thought, to have come so far, oceans and oceans away, and this was still as close to home as he’d ever been. Tooru almost couldn’t bear to look at him but he _had_ to, tightening his arms across Iwa-chan’s neck. Anchoring so that he didn’t dissolve into nothing, a vacuum of heat and longing, ragged with pleasure and hurt. Iwa-chan’s brow was wrinkled in concentration and his eyes were open, bright—like he was holding back tears. “I know,” he said. “I do, too.”

“ _Please_ ,” Tooru said, “Iwa-chan, _please_ ,” and Iwa-chan finally started moving, the rhythm like Tooru’s heartbeat, thundering all through him and frightful in its certainty, _I won’t lose this again, I can’t lose you again_. Tooru wrapped his legs around Iwa-chan’s waist, bracing hard against each thrust, and Iwa-chan ducked his head to press a kiss against his temple, to repeat his name, say “I’ve got you” so that Tooru broke, came undone, shaking apart, aware of Iwa-chan’s hands secure on his shoulders, Iwa-chan’s tears on his face, Iwa-chan filling up all the spaces inside him, the only thing in the world that could possibly hold him together.

#

Tooru didn’t want to wake up, but he was a light sleeper even on good days, and he’d been ignoring the strip of sunlight falling across his face for several minutes now. He wriggled back, not daring to hope, and was comforted to find a body pressed against him, the arms he loved over his, one hand curled against his belly as if to keep him there. Still he kept his eyes shut, trying and failing not to think.

He needed to go back to his room, but leaving was unbearable.

He had so much to do in his six days left in Japan, but all he wanted was to stay in this moment.

He needed to go back to Argentina. But he wanted to stay with Iwa-chan forever.

That last thought sent a jolt of hurt through him, lancing his chest. He opened his eyes, touched Iwa-chan’s hand and carefully lifted it. It was like that morning in Yosemite years ago, how he always knew he could bear it, how this moment was already becoming a memory. Something to look at and love and _not own._ He couldn’t stay. And Iwa-chan couldn’t come with him. Iwa-chan had a life here: his team, his family, his career. Of course Tooru fucked it up again, reaching out when they’d been so good, when they’d carefully built things up without each other.

It was going to be so much worse this time, saying goodbye.

He sat up and looked at Iwa-chan’s face. He was such a frowny sleeper. Tooru could watch that face for eternity.

He scooted to the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, _thinking_ , thinking as hard as he possibly could. Eventually he felt a kiss on his shoulder, then another, trailing to his neck and down his spine. Iwa-chan looped arms around him and kissed the skin beneath his ear. He really liked that spot. “Morning, champion.”

“You’re so embarrassing,” Tooru said, pressing hands to his face, to the smile that broke there. It was too early in the morning to cry.

Iwa-chan laughed and hugged him tighter. They were quiet for a minute or two.

“You should go,” Iwa-chan said, softly. His team would wonder, and he had a busy day. Tooru knew all this and it hurt anyway, that they could let go of each other after all. But Iwa-chan kept embracing him. Tooru leaned back so that he could tip his head up and kiss Iwa-chan’s lips.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.”

Iwa-chan’s sleep-lidded eyes shot open, exactly as Tooru flinched. Shit. Oh, fuck. He hadn’t meant to—

“Oikawa,” Iwa-chan said, blinking rapidly. “Hey.”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to—” he should have, could’ve, _waited_ for a better moment, when they had time, when things could actually work. He didn’t have anything to offer right now. But he meant it. _Fuck_ , he meant it—even if it was a selfish, stupid thing to ask.“Iwa-chan, I just—I can’t imagine not being with you for the rest of my life.” He was crying after all, voice going muzzy with desperation, to try and get Iwa-chan to _understand_. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m asking for so much and I want to be at Paris in four years too and I know, _I know_ what you have here, I don’t want you to—give that up for me—I’m okay with waiting. Honest. _I just can’t lose you again_.” He paused to suck in a gulp of air, because it hurt to say all this. “I know it’s selfish of me but I want my career and I want you too. I want you, too.”

Tooru shifted, rubbing at his eyes with shaking fingers; he felt Iwa-chan gripping his upper arms, like he was trying to find purchase there. Iwa-chan hadn’t said _anything_. “Sorry,” Tooru gasped. He was. It had been a stupid thing to say. There wasn’t any way to make this work and he should have stuck to the plan, _just last night and goodbye again_. “I should never have—“

“Yes,” Iwa-chan said.

Whatever Tooru was babbling died in his throat. He blinked. “What?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Iwa-chan said. “Yes, I’ll marry you. If you mean it. If you’re sure. Here, or in Argentina, or wherever. It doesn’t matter where.” He wiped Tooru’s cheeks, kissed him lightly, with nothing but love. _Love._ Tooru thought about all the years they hadn’t known and all the years they _did_ know, how it had seemed impossible every time, so that something as simple as _love_ couldn’t overcome it, but maybe—they were going to end up here anyway, Iwa-chan’s arms around him, a tender smile on his face. “I was wrong. I won’t let you go again.”

_I don’t care how hard it is if I get to have you._

It wasn’t that simple. They knew this. There was so much to figure out—still all the reasons why it was so fucking complicated—but maybe it had been this simple, too, from the beginning.

“You should say no,” Tooru whispered, voice starting to go nasal as he pressed his head down on Iwa-chan’s shoulder, savoring the skin there, the muscle and bone, how he’d get to have this always. “Then you can still back out of this.”

“Oikawa, if I could have, I’d have done it back in kindergarten.”

“You’re an idiot.” Tooru felt weightless. He could not stop smiling. This was different than the joy he’d felt getting the silver medal looped around this neck. That gave him something; this, though, made him whole.

“I’m _your_ idiot,” Iwa-chan murmured, and, well, Tooru couldn’t argue with that.

**vii.**

It was a beautiful day for a photo shoot. Martina Lescano checked her hair in her compact mirror and cleared her throat, then pushed the doorbell again. She knew what she knew, of course. And she’d been a sports reporter for almost a decade now—but could she be blamed for being nervous in front of _The King?_

This wasn’t even her first interview with him, but it was still a shock when he opened the door and said “Hi, Martina!” He was so _handsome_. His hair curled softly around his ears and his eyes were inviting, and no one should look so good in a simple white t-shirt and cardigan sweater. “Come in,” he said, warmly. Sunlight filled the hallway as he led her and Carlos, her photographer, through it. There were pictures dotting the walls, Oikawa Tooru throughout the years, with assorted people. She noticed the man next to Oikawa in most of them, handsome in a rugged way. Martina didn’t have time to look closely as she kept pace, but it seemed likely. _Quite_ likely. Halfway through the hall there was a glass case absolutely stuffed with plaques and trophies. The shelf at eye-level held the silver medal from Tokyo, and a plaque that was all in Japanese, with a pink bow on the upper right corner.

Oikawa led them to a simple living room. She could tell everything in there had been lovingly curated, from the photo books on the coffee table to the plants lined up on the windowsill, bathed in the gentle afternoon light.

“Can we take photos here?” Martina asked.

“Sure,” Oikawa said. “Do you drink green tea? I have my favorite brand from Japan.”

“I love green tea,” Martina said, as Carlos’s camera started to click. Oikawa grinned and poured her at a cup. She was starting to relax a little, coming down from the shock of seeing him in person. Oikawa was one of those celebrities that seemed at ease around cameras, talking about himself, his career, his volleyball—even in a second language. When he couldn’t find the words he’d stop and think, or fish out his phone for a translation. Oikawa Tooru wasn’t shy, and the media loved him for it; but he was always, in some ways, very private, and had been from the beginning. To do a home interview was a rare gift, and Martina had been seeding it for months. She was surprised when he agreed, giving her a date—Saturday—and an address for a quiet residential neighborhood in San Juan. It was a two-bedroom apartment tucked between two houses, utterly nondescript. It felt, overwhelmingly, like a home.

“I want to ask you about Paris,” Martina started, since that was the heart of the matter. Would Argentina be seeing a repeat performance in two years? Would their team, their pride, be blessed with gold this time? And what was his opinion on the new wing spiker rookie, Gaston Andrade—did Oikawa agree that he’d round the national team out perfectly?

Oikawa was straightforward when he could be and delightfully coy otherwise, and he laughed a lot, so that by the time someone unexpectedly ducked into the room all her tension was gone.

“Oh, hello,” the person said, in English. It was the handsome man from the photos. “Er, ah. Bienvenidas.”

Martina’s heart skipped a beat. “Hello!” she said in English, to make it less stressful on him. They’d run over the appointed time, she realized. Her reporter brain formed a conclusion and clung to it like a barnacle.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa said, beaming. He touched the man’s sleeve, said something in Japanese. The man smiled back, a painful fondness in his eyes; he nodded and whispered something in Oikawa’s ear, one hand firm on his shoulder. She narrowed her eyes at the band on his finger. _Yes._ It _did_ match Oikawa’s. Oh my god.

Marriage, or engagement? Somehow she was convinced it was the former. Probably Oikawa’s move here from the place closer to the gymnasium a year ago had been part of that; perhaps the ceremony had been in this very city, quietly attended by a handful of family and friends. What was the press doing, that they’d missed him—them _—in suits?_ She wasn’t sure if she’d cover it, and certainly she’d take it out if Oikawa asked her to remove it. Or maybe her editor would decide it was irrelevant—but Martina felt positively _vindicated_.

“I’ll refill your tea,” the man called Iwa-chan said to her, nodding at Carlos too. He picked up the pot and shuffled off.

“Your partner is very kind,” Martina said, wondering if she’d chosen the right word, if _roommate_ would have been more subtle.

“To everyone but me,” Oikawa answered, looking to where Iwa-chan had left for the kitchen. It was almost like he’d forgotten anyone else was there.

Martina gestured to Carlos rapidly: that affection in Oikawa’s eyes, that smile, so soft she could gather it up in her arms and lie in it. Thankfully Carlos got the message and took the photo.

Candid shots were the best—and _that._ That was the money shot right there.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This was supposed to be much sweeter and shorter, with an AU where they go to college and have awkward go-kons with each other, but then HQ ended _that way_ and I found myself investing an unnecessary amount of time puzzling out how to make the whole Olympics thing work.
> 
> 2\. I'm not usually in the habit of gifting fic to people whose works I admire, but I am completely hopeless about this OTP because of amazing fanart and fanfic, and I felt this was a teeny way of showing my appreciation.
> 
> 3\. An alternative title would be: "the one where IwaOi are bisexual disasters."
> 
> 4\. If someone told me the longest thing I would write in the last three years would be a novella for the volleyball anime, I would've gone "Haha," except that's now factually true. Thank you for reading; it's been a rough year, so I hope this gave you even a little joy. Comments, as always, are extremely appreciated.
> 
> 5\. Title is from "Gold in the Air of Summer" by Kings of Convenience; that whole album seems to work really well for this pairing.


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